The Riftwar Saga

by Raymond E. Feist

  Now the elves and dwarves, as well as the castles of the Far Coast, were cut off from the main force of the Kingdom army. There was no communication of any sort, for the pigeons used to carry messages had been destroyed when the old camp had been overrun. The fate of the other fronts was unknown.

  The Armies of the West were regrouping, and it took Laurie and Kasumi some time to find the headquarters camp. As they rode up to the command pavilion, they saw signs of bitter defeat on every side. It was the worst setback of the war for the Kingdom. Everywhere they looked they was wounded or sick men, and those who showed no wounds had the look of despair.

  A guard sergeant inspected their warrant and sent a guard with them to show them where the Duke’s tent stood. They reached the large command tent, and a lackey took their mounts from them as the guard went inside. A moment later a tall young man, blond-bearded and wearing the tabard of Crydee, came out. Behind him appeared a stout man with a grey beard – a magician by his garb – and another man, large, with a ragged scar down his face. Laurie wondered if they might be old friends Pug had spoken of, but quickly focused his attention on the young officer, who stopped before him. ‘I bring a message to Lord Borric.’

  The young man smiled a bitter smile, then said, ‘You may give me the message, sir, I am Lyam, his son.’

  Laurie said, ‘I mean no disrespect, Highness, but I must speak with the Duke in person. So I was instructed by Duke Caldric.’

  At mention of the Royal Chancellor’s name, Lyam exchanged glances with his companions, then held aside the tent flap. Laurie and Kasumi entered, the others following. Inside, there was a small brazier burning and a large table with maps upon it. Lyam led them to another section of the huge tent, curtained off from the rest. He pulled back the hanging, and they saw a man lying upon a sleeping pallet.

  He was a tall man, with dark hair streaked with grey. His face was drawn, drained of blood, his lips nearly blue. His breathing was ragged, each breath rattling loudly as he slept. He wore clean bed clothing, but heavy bandages could be seen beneath his loose collar.

  Lyam put back the hanging as another man entered the tent. Old, with a near-white mane of hair, he was still erect and broad-shouldered. Softly he said, ‘What is this?’

  Lyam answered, ‘These men bring messages for Father from Caldric.’

  The old warrior stuck out his hand. ‘Give them to me.’

  When Laurie hesitated, the man nearly barked, ‘Damn it, fellow, I’m Brucal. With Borric wounded, I’m commander of the Armies of the West.’

  Laurie said, ‘I’ve no written message, Your Grace. Duke Caldric says to introduce my companion. This is Kasumi of the Shinzawai, emissary of the Emperor of Tsuranuanni, who carries an offering of peace to the King.’

  Lyam said, ‘Is there to be peace at last?’

  Laurie shook his head. ‘Sadly, no. The Duke also said to say this: the King is mad, and the Duke of Bas-Tyra has slain Prince Erland. He fears only Lord Borric can save the Kingdom.’

  Brucal was visibly shaken by the news. To Lyam he quietly said, ‘Now we know the rumors to be true. Erland was Guy’s prisoner. Erland dead. I can scarcely believe it.’ Shaking off his shock, he said, ‘Lyam, I know your mind is upon your father now, but you must bend thought to this: your father is near death; you will soon be Duke of Crydee. And with Erland dead, you will also be heir to the throne by right of birth.’

  Brucal sat heavily upon a stool near the map table. ‘This is a heavy burden thrust upon you, Lyam, but others in the West will look to you for leadership as they once looked to your father. If there was ever any love between the two realms, it is now strained to the breaking point, with Guy upon the throne in Krondor. It is now clear for all to see, Bas-Tyra means to be King, for a mad Rodric cannot be allowed his throne much longer.’ He fixed Lyam with a steady gaze. ‘You will soon have to decide what we in the West shall do. Upon your word, we have civil war.’

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE •

  Decision

  THE HOLY CITY WAS FESTIVE.

  Banners flew from every tall building. People lined the streets, throwing flowers before the nobles who were carried on their litters to the stadium. It was a day of high celebration, and who could feel troubled on such a day?

  One who did feel troubled arrived in the pattern room of the stadium, the final reverberations of a chime signaling the appearance of a Great One of Tsuranuanni. Milamber shrugged off his preoccupation for a moment as he left the pattern room, near the central gallery of the Grand Imperial Stadium. The crowd of Tsurani nobles, idling away the time before the games began, parted to allow Milamber to pass through the archway leading to the magicians’ seats. Glancing around the small sea of black robes, he noticed Shimone and Hochopepa, who were keeping a place for him.

  They signaled greetings as he left the aisle between the magicians’ section and the Imperial Party’s and joined them. Below, on the arena floor, some of the dwarf-like folk from Tsubar – the so-called Lost Land across the Sea of Blood – were fighting large insect creatures, like cho-ja but without intelligence. Soft wooden swords and essentially harmless bites from mandibles provided a conflict more comic than dangerous. The commoners and lesser nobles already in their seats laughed in appreciation. These contests kept them amused while the great and near-great were waiting to enter the stadium. Tardiness in Tsuranuanni became a virtue when one reached a certain social level.

  Shimone said, ‘It is a shame you took so long getting here, Milamber. There was a singularly fine match a short while ago.’

  ‘I was under the impression the killing wasn’t to begin just yet.’

  Hochopepa, munching nuts cooked in sweet oils, said, ‘True, but our friend Shimone is something of an aficionado of the games.’

  Shimone said, ‘Earlier young officers of noble family fought with training weapons to first blood, to better display their skills and win honors for their clans—’

  ‘Not to mention the fruits of some rather heavy wagering,’ interjected Hochopepa.

  Ignoring the remark, Shimone continued. ‘There was a spirited match between sons of the Oronalmar and the Keda. I’ve not seen a better display in years.’

  While Shimone described the match, Milamber let his gaze wander. He could see the small standards of the Keda, Minwanabi, Oaxatucan, Xacatecas, Anasati, and other great families of the Empire. He noticed that the banner of the Shinzawai was absent, and wondered at it. Hochopepa said, ‘You seem much preoccupied, Milamber.’

  Milamber nodded agreement. ‘Before leaving for today’s festival, I received word that a motion to reform land taxes and abolish debt slavery had been introduced in the High Council yesterday. The message came from the Lord of the Tuclamekla, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why he sent it until, near the end, he thanked me for providing the concepts of social reform the motion was intended to enact. I was appalled at such an action.’

  Shimone laughed. ‘Had you been so thick-witted a student, you’d still be wearing the white robe.’

  Milamber looked back blankly, and Hochopepa said, ‘You go about causing all sorts of rumblings with your speeches before the Assembly, constantly harping on all manner of social ills, and then sit dumbfounded because someone out there listened?’

  ‘What I said to our brother magicians was not intended for discussion outside the Assembly halls.’

  ‘How unreasonable,’ said Hochopepa. ‘Someone in the Assembly spoke to a friend who wasn’t a magician!’

  ‘What I’d like to know,’ said Shimone, ‘is how this potful of reforms placed before the High Council by the Hunzan Clan has your name appended to it?’

  Milamber looked uncomfortable, to the delight of his friends. ‘One of the young artists who worked on the murals at my estate is a son of the Tuclamekla. We did discuss differences between Tsurani and Kingdom cultures and social values, but only as an outgrowth of our discussions of the differences in styles of art.’

  Hochopepa looked skyward, as if s
eeking divine guidance. ‘When I heard the Party for Progress – which is dominated by the Hunzan Clan, which is dominated by the Tuclamekla Family – cited you as inspiration, I could scarcely believe my hearing, but now I can see your hand is in every problem plaguing the Empire.’ He looked at his friend with a mock-serious expression. ‘Tell me, is it true the Party for Progress is going to change its name to the Party of Milamber?’

  Shimone laughed while Milamber fixed Hochopepa with a baleful look. ‘Katala thinks it amusing when I get upset by this sort of thing, Hocho. And you might think it funny as well, but I want it publicly known I did not intend for this to happen. I simply offered some observations and opinions, and what the Hunzan Clan and the Party for Progress does with them is not my doing.’

  Hochopepa said in chiding tones, ‘I fear that if so famous a personage as yourself wishes not to have such things occur, then such a personage should have his mouth sewn shut.’

  Shimone laughed, and Milamber felt his own mirth rise. ‘Very well, Hocho,’ answered Milamber. ‘I will take the blame. Still, I don’t know if the Empire is yet ready for the changes I think needed.’

  Shimone said, ‘We have heard your arguments before, Milamber, but today is not the time, nor is this the place for social debate. Let us attend to the matters at hand. Remember, many of the Assembly are offended by your concerns over matters they judge political. And while I tend to support your notions as refreshing and progressive, keep in mind you are making enemies.’

  Trumpets and drums sounded, signaling the approach of the Imperial Party and cutting off further conversation. The Tsubar folk and the insectoids were chased from the arena, handlers herding them away. When the field was cleared, grounds keepers hurried out with rakes and drags to smooth the sand. The sound of the trumpets could be heard again, and the first members of the imperial procession, heralds in the imperial white, entered. They carried long, curved trumpets, fashioned from the horns of some large beast, which curled around their shoulders to end above their heads. They were followed by drummers who beat a steady tattoo.

  When they were in position in the front of the imperial box, the Warlord’s honor guard entered. Each wore armor and helm finished in needra hide bleached free of all color. Around the breastplate and helm of each, precious gold trim gleamed in the sun. Milamber heard Hochopepa mutter at the waste of this rare metal.

  When they were stationed, a senior herald shouted, ‘Almecho, Warlord!’ and the crowd rose, cheering. He was accompanied by his retinue including several in black robes – the Warlord’s pet magicians, as the others of the Assembly referred to them. Chief among these were the two brothers, Elgahar and Ergoran.

  Then the herald cried, ‘Ichindar! Ninety-one times Emperor!’ The crowd roared its approval as the young Light of Heaven made his entrance. He was attended by priests of each of the twenty orders. The crowd stood thundering. On and on it went, and Milamber wondered if the love of the Tsurani people would sustain the Light of Heaven should a confrontation between Warlord and Emperor take place. In spite of the Tsurani reverence for tradition, he did not think the Warlord a man to step down meekly from his office – a thing unheard of in history – should the Emperor so order.

  As the noise died down, Shimone said, ‘It seems, friend Milamber, that the contemplative life doesn’t suit the Light of Heaven. Can’t say that I blame him, sitting around all day with no one for company but a lot a priests and silly girls chosen for their beauty instead of conversational ability. Must become frightfully boring.’

  Milamber laughed. ‘I doubt most men would agree.’

  Shimone shrugged. ‘I constantly forget you were quite old when you were trained, and you have a wife also.’

  At mention of wives, Hochopepa looked pained. He interrupted. ‘The Warlord is going to make an announcement.’

  Almecho rose and held his hands aloft for silence. When the stadium fell quiet, his voice rang out. ‘The gods smile upon Tsuranuanni! I bring news of a great victory over the otherworld barbarians! We have crushed their greatest army, and our warriors celebrate! Soon all the lands called the Kingdom will be laid at the Light of Heaven’s feet.’ He turned and bowed deferentially to the Emperor.

  Milamber felt a stab at the news. Without being aware, he began to stand, only to have Hochopepa grip his arm and hiss, ‘You are Tsurani!’

  Milamber shook himself free of the unexpected shock and composed himself. ‘Thank you, Hocho. I nearly forgot myself.’

  ‘Hush!’ said Hochopepa.

  They returned their attention to the Warlord. ‘. . . and as a sign of our devotion to the Light of Heaven, we dedicate these games to his honor.’ A cheer rang through the arena, and the Warlord sat down.

  Milamber spoke quietly to his friends. ‘It seems the Emperor is less than ecstatic at the news.’ Hochopepa and Shimone turned to watch the Emperor, who was sitting with a stoic expression upon his face.

  Hochopepa said, ‘He hides it well, but I think you are right, Milamber. Something in all this disturbs him.’

  Milamber said nothing, knowing well enough the cause: this victory would blunt the Blue Wheel peace initiative, and would gain the Warlord more power at the Emperor’s expense.

  Shimone tapped Milamber upon the shoulder. ‘The games begin.’

  As the doors on the arena floor opened to admit the combatants, Milamber studied the Emperor. He was young, in his early twenties, and possessed a look of intelligence. His brow was high, and his reddishbrown hair was allowed to grow to his shoulders. He turned in Milamber’s direction, to speak with a priest at his side, and Milamber could see his clear green eyes glint in the sun. Their eyes made contact for a moment, and there was a brief flicker of recognition, and Milamber thought: So you have been told of my part in your plan. The Emperor continued his conversation, without missing a beat, and no one else saw the exchange.

  Hochopepa said, ‘This is a clemency spectacle. They will all fight until only one stands. He will be pardoned for his crimes.’

  ‘What are their crimes?’ Milamber asked.

  Shimone answered. ‘The usual. Petty theft, begging without temple authority, bearing false witness, avoiding taxes, disobeying lawful orders, and the like.’

  ‘What about capital crimes?’

  ‘Murder, treason, blasphemy, striking one’s master, all are unpardonable crimes.’ His voice rose to carry over the crowd noises. ‘They are put in with war prisoners who will not serve as slaves. They are sentenced to fight over and over until they are killed.’

  A guard of soldiers left the floor, abandoning the sand to the prisoners. Hochopepa said, ‘Common criminals. There will be little sport.’

  There seemed to be accuracy in the remark, for the prisoners were a sad-looking lot. Naked but for loincloths, they stood with weapons and shields that were foreign to them. Many were old and sick, seemingly lost and confused, holding their axes, swords, and spears loosely at their sides.

  The trumpet sounded the start of combat, and the old and sick ones were quickly killed. Several had never even raised their weapons in defense, being too confused to try to stay alive. Within minutes nearly half the prisoners lay dead or dying on the sand. Shortly the action slackened, as combatants came to face opponents of more equal skill and cunning. Slowly the numbers diminished, and the free-flowing riotous nature of the contest changed. Occasionally when an opponent fell, a combatant was left standing next to another fighting pair. Often this resulted in three-way combat, which the mob approved with loud cheering, as the awkward combat would result in an excess of bloodshed and pain.

  At the end three fighters remained. Two of them had not managed to resolve their conflict. Both were on the verge of exhaustion. The third man approached cautiously, keeping equal distance between himself and both men, looking for an advantage.

  He had it a few seconds later. Using knife and sword, he jumped forward and dealt one of the combatants a blow to the side of the head that felled him. Shimone said, ‘The idiot! Couldn’t
he see the other man is the stronger fighter? He should have waited until one man was clearly at an advantage, then struck at him, leaving the weaker opponent to fight.’

  Milamber felt shaky. Shimone, his former teacher, was his closest friend after Hochopepa. Yet for all his education, all his wisdom, he was howling after the blood of others as if he were the most ignorant commoner in the least expensive seat. No matter how he tried, Milamber could not master the Tsurani enthusiasm for the death of others. He turned to Shimone and said, ‘I’m sure he was a little too busy to trouble himself over the finer points of tactics.’ His sarcasm was lost on Shimone, closely watching the combat.

  Milamber noticed Hochopepa was ignoring the contest. The wily magician was taking note of every conversation in the stands: to him the games were only another opportunity to study the subtle aspects of the Game of the Council. Milamber found this blindness to the death and suffering below as disturbing as Shimone’s enthusiasm.

  The fight was quickly over, the man with the knife winning. The crowd greeted the victory with enthusiasm. Coins were thrown on the sand, so that the victor would return to society with a small amount of capital.

  While the arena was being cleared, Shimone called over a herald and inquired about the balance of the day’s activities. He turned to the others, obviously pleased at the news. ‘There are only a few matched pairs, then two special matches, a team of prisoners against a starving harulth, and a match between some soldiers from Midkemia and captured Thuril warriors. That should prove most interesting.’

  Milamber’s expression indicated that he didn’t agree. Judging the time right for the question, he said, ‘Hocho, have you noticed any of the Shinzawai Family in attendance?’

  He glanced around the stadium, looking for the family banners of the more prominent houses of the Empire. ‘Minwanabi, Anasati, Keda, Tonmargu, Xacatecas, Acoma . . . No, Milamber. I can’t say if any of your former, ah, benefactors are to be seen about. Not that I would expect them to be.’