The Queen of Swords

by R. S. Belcher

  Rory stood and did as he was told, providing as much detail as his incalculable memory could summon. As Rory told his tale, Father rose from his chair and walked to the table holding the various artifacts.

  “My old love is beginning to awaken inside the girl. We can’t have that. And it troubles me that Maude Stapleton has forgotten the kindness I did for her, not so long ago. Have I told you the story, Rory, since I returned? How I owe my freedom to Maude Stapleton and how she owes me her life?”

  “No, Father,” Rory said.

  “Several months … is it months? It’s so hard to keep track of how you little things follow time. Several months ago, Maude came to me in my dreary little prison under the town of Golgotha. Had I been imprisoned there for over a century? Yes, a century. It’s so strange, Rory, that you people have so many words for time, for the thing that eats you alive. I think you do that to make you feel like you control it, and not the other way around.

  “Maude had been in a fierce battle. She was bleeding out, dying. I talked with her. She had disturbed the pharmakis wards that had been holding me there when she stumbled, dying into my chamber. I wanted to try to understand what you finite things experience when you are ending; when you look back at your pathetic flutter of existence, what do you regret, what do you treasure? Maude’s answer intrigued me, it amused me, and so I decided I’d keep her around for a bit. I saved her life, healed her. Once I discovered she was one of the Daughters, I warned her about interfering with me. And now she is in the middle of my gambit against the Daughters. Sweet little Constance is exactly what I need to be able to return to Carcosa and reclaim what is rightfully mine. Maude is the only variable not accounted for in my design. Her arrival is no coincidence. Still, Maude did accidentally free me. I should have gratitude for that, I suppose, shouldn’t I, Rory? Isn’t that what human beings do, show appreciation? Compassion? Understanding?”

  “I … I wouldn’t know, sir,” Rory responded. Father ran a sinuous finger over the ancient Grecian urn. He seemed lost in his own thoughts as he traced the shape of the winged man-snake’s face with the tip of his finger.

  “No, of course you wouldn’t, how could you? You were elevated above them, above the chattel you descended from. I fanned the feeble, dying flame of Maude’s blink of a life and renewed it when she had fallen before her enemies, just as her thread was about to be snipped. A little gratitude would be nice, is that the word, nice? I did warn her to not interfere in my ascendance back into the world. I sense my ex-wife’s meddling will is behind Maude’s interference.”

  Father turned away from his treasures.

  “Rory, how many Sons do we have in this city? Adepts with full training.”

  “Including the ship’s crew we brought with us, it was seven, Father,” Rory replied. “After the other night, it’s down to four.”

  “How many of the Unfeeling do we have here?”

  “Ten we can mobilize, Father, but none have taken your blood. They are not true Sons yet.”

  “They will do for the task ahead,” Father said. “It is time to teach Miss Stapleton a lesson in gratitude.”

  12

  The Seven of Swords

  Abomey, Kingdom of Dahomey, Africa

  July 24, 1721

  They arrived at the earthen-red walls of Abomey. The walls that circled the city, furrowed and streaked from the rains, began six miles out. The exterior of the walls were ringed by a wide trench, five feet deep, and filled with thorny acacia bushes, the traditional fortress fortification in this part of Africa.

  The traffic on the roads into the city was funneled across bridges over the acacia trench. Each bridge led to a fortified gate. Adu told them that there were six gates around the city.

  They were nearing one such gate, where a cluster of warriors, armed with French muskets as well as swords, stood and stopped each visitor before they passed through. A Fon woman, tall and officious in bearing, was interviewing each traveler before allowing them entrance into the city. A colorful headdress was perched on her head. She wore an ornate necklace of bronze and pearl that was perhaps a badge of office. Besides the necklace, she wore no top, and was dressed only in a dyed purple and white kanga.

  “They put women in charge of the gate?” Belrose chuckled.

  “There are counterparts of the opposite sex for many roles in the government,” Adu said. “Vodun, the religion of the Fon and the Yoruba, believes in balance and equanimity in both the spirit and the flesh worlds, and in masculine and feminine forces. They respect the strengths and the weaknesses of both.”

  “Is it true their kings claim to be gods?” Belrose asked as they shuffled forward in the line.

  “Not exactly,” Adu said. “The Fon hold great reverence and respect for their ancestors and they worship the spirits of their dead kings. Each king of Dahomey has built a palace here in Abomey that is also something of a shrine. The royal bloodline is said to have descended from the union of Princess Aligbonon of Tado and a panther spirit.”

  “Panther?” Anne said.

  “If you’d ever seen them fight,” Adu said, “you’d believe it.”

  At the checkpoint, Adu stepped forward and began to address the woman in the Fon tongue. Anne knew less than a smattering of the tongue, but one word she thought she heard both of them use several times was Purrah.

  After a rapid conversation that involved a great deal of pointing at Anne, and especially her red hair, Adu finally seemed to have made the woman happy. The official gestured the party toward the gateway arch. “Welcome to the city of kings,” she said in broken French. “May your stay be peaceful and enjoyable. And may Mawu-Lisa and the Vodu walk with you here.”

  They passed through the gate into Abomey proper. The streets were narrow paved mazes, bustling with people dressed in colorful garb of oranges, reds, blues, greens and yellows. Every imaginable hue and pattern blurred by them. Anne saw bracelets and entire tunics meticulously made of smooth wooden beads, rainbow headdresses of feathers, shell and pearl, and complex jewelry made of bronze, gold and iron worn by people on the street that would put to shame the crude baubles of some European nobles.

  The hot, humid air was full of all the familiar smells of a big city—food cooking, the musky smell of animals and human sweat, mixed with the aroma of clay baking in the blazing sun. There was the hum of voices, the cool splashing sounds of water under shaded groves of palms.

  “Why were we given the royal ass-kissing at the door?” Anne asked. “And what pray tell is a Purrah?”

  “It’s a local association,” Adu said, enjoying the feel of the great city settling around him. He waved his hand dismissively as if chasing away a fly. “Like a guild of sorts. The lovely lady at the gate is affiliated with an allied organization of the Purrah and the Sande, in this district. She smoothed things over for us a bit. We can arrange to resupply here, and be on our way in a few days’ time.”

  “Maybe by then I’ll have some clue why we’re here,” Anne said, “and where we’re headed next.”

  This was a sprawling city teeming with people, mostly Fon, or one of the neighboring tribal groups. Occasionally, Anne glimpsed a white face—most likely a slaver or other merchant—in the crowds. The buildings were clustered together along the narrow streets. Farther up the road from the gate was the din of a massive open-air marketplace. Twisting bronze sculpture stood like guardians at the intersections of crossroads, delineating between fields of crops that fed this metropolis and the numerous villages, like neighborhoods, that existed within Abomey’s expansive walls.

  There was art everywhere and most of it was unlike anything Anne had ever seen. The interior of the massive city walls and the walls of most of the buildings within were covered with paintings of kings, gods, animals and spirits that were unions of man and beast. Many of the paintings and reliefs were devoted to the history and mythology of the Dahomey kings. Some newer pieces included images of muskets, European sailing vessels and white men interacting with the god-like
king. A busy public square they walked through had at its center a heavy iron statue of a bipedal scaled creature that was a union of man and shark adorned with the trappings of a king.

  “Hopefully your friend back there won’t get too curious about us,” Anne said as a group of male and female soldiers walked by, dressed in beaded vests and simple skirt-like wraps. The crowds parted for them as they passed. Anne noticed one of the female warriors give her a sidelong look, that suspicious age-old recognition between guard and criminal. Somehow seeing the same look on the Amazon’s face that she had seen from the law her entire life made Anne feel a little more at home.

  A few hours later, the company was in negotiations with a lodge keeper to secure quarters for the approaching night. A contingent of armed female warriors surrounded the expedition, muskets and blades at the ready. Belrose began to draw his rapier, but Anne motioned for him to hold.

  “Have a care, Hummingbird,” Adu said. “These are the Ahosi, those ‘Amazons’ you heard of. They are very good. They might just clip your wings.”

  The woman official who had been at the gate earlier in the day was with them, as was her male counterpart. The female official stepped forward.

  “You and your companions are honored to be guests of his majesty, King Agaja,” the official said in French. “The king further honors you. He has sent his personal bodyguard, the Ahosi—the King’s Brides—to escort you to the royal palace, so that no harm may befall you.”

  “One could die from so much honor,” Belrose muttered quietly to Anne.

  “Lucky us,” Anne said, glaring at Adu. “You sure I’m not on your list of community service projects?”

  “Calm yourself. If they were going to kill us,” Adu said, “we’d be dead … unless of course they intend to make us into a sacrificial offering. Is it sacrifice season again so soon?” Anne and Belrose looked at each other, then back to Adu.

  “Don’t worry,” Adu said. “I’ll speak for us to the king. It will be fine.”

  “That’s worked out so well so far,” Anne said as they were herded by the Ahosi toward the palace.

  * * *

  The royal palace of King Agaja was like a city within a city. The compound was made up of multiple long, low buildings, each with their own courtyards for different political, social and religious purposes. There were opulent bedchambers for the king, his numerous wives and children, as well as his inner council of advisers, visiting merchants from Europe, dignitaries from other villages within the kingdom and secluded dens for the king to take council from his array of oracles, priests and fortune-tellers. There was also considerable barracks space provided for the Ahosi, the king’s elite female bodyguards.

  Each building’s walls were thick to keep the interior cool and comfortable even in the oppressive heat of midday. The cool darkness of the Kpodoji courtyard, where the king received Anne, Adu and Belrose, was lit with large sconces. The firelight shadows danced across the walls of the courtyard, covered with more murals depicting this king’s history and accomplishments. Benches filled with tributes of furs, gold, jewels, boxes of pearls, gilded ornate weapons and European guns were off to the side, clearly there to impress and show the king’s power.

  The man did make a big impression, Anne thought. King Agaja was easily twice Anne’s age. He was a little shy of six feet. His broad, muscular body was crisscrossed with scars from battle and he wore those scars the way a general wears his medals. His chest was bare. His face was broad, but not fat; there was little of the king that might be considered soft. Agaja had a calm, but cautious, countenance. He sat on his throne, an ornately carved chair of wood, as one born to power and authority over countless lives.

  Anne had experienced two types of leaders, those who expected to be obeyed and followed out of some ridiculous notions of entitlement or tradition, and those who had bled to lead; it didn’t matter if it was a pirate prince, guild master, tavern cook or king, they all fell into one category or the other. You could smell undeserved title on someone like cow flop. Anne noted that the king of the Dahomey looked like he had earned his throne, and was wise enough to know it was never truly won.

  Behind Agaja on the right stood one of the Ahosi. She was almost as tall as the king but her build was as sinewy as Agaja’s was broad. She was not a beautiful woman, but she was striking, and she had beautiful eyes, hazel, flecked with pale green, that scanned and saw everything. She wore the same beaded vest as the other Ahosi, but she had a series of gold bands adorning her long, regal neck. Her hair was shaved. Claws, fashioned of iron and sharpened to a point, were on each of her long fingers. Those all-seeing eyes locked on Anne and Anne stared back, unblinking. They knew each other, though they had never met.

  “All who attend now, fall in reverence to the earth before Agaja, son of Houegbadja, brother of King Akaba, and fifth king of Dahomey, lord of all these lands,” one of the king’s ministers called out in Fon, as Anne and the rest of her expedition were brought into the royal presence. A translator, an old Fon gentleman, repeated everything in French for the Europeans. Adu, Belrose, the bearers and all the royal court fell to the paved stone floor of the courtyard before the king. Anne saw something she recognized all too well pass behind the king’s eyes. He, along with the whole court, seemed fascinated by her red hair. Anne held the king’s gaze and slowly lowered herself to one knee, but no farther. No one else saw the shadow of smile pass on Agaja’s face for an instant.

  “You are going to get yourself killed,” Belrose hissed, “and us, too, most likely.”

  “What happened to meeting death on your own terms?” Anne whispered. “Why don’t you clean the floor up a bit with that wicked tongue of yours while you’re down there.”

  The minister searched Agaja’s face for guidance about how the king wished to deal with Anne’s affront. Agaja gestured, raising his hand, palm up. “Rise,” the minister said. “All who seek petition in accordance with the laws and rites of the kingdom, approach the royal presence.”

  The court and the expedition stood. Adu addressed the minister in Fon and stepped forward. Anne grabbed his sleeve as he passed her. “Tell him we want supplies, and protection through the kingdom,” she whispered. “See if they have any information about a city of bone.”

  “Is that all?” Adu said quietly. “You presume much. He should have taken your head off for your disrespect.”

  “Yeah,” Anne said, “you’re right. I think he fancies me.”

  Adu rolled his eyes and approached the throne. He bowed again before the king and then began to speak in fluent Fon. He made a point of announcing his full name, Adu Ogyinae, which seemed to cause quite a stir in the court. Several agitated ministers shouted at Adu, shaking their heads violently as they pointed at him.

  “Want to bet he owes someone money here,” Belrose said, leaning over to Anne, “or got someone’s sister with child?”

  The clamor of the incredulous advisers grew louder and more strident. A murmur began among the various factions and hangers-on within Agaja’s court. Anne noticed Agaja watching all the discord silently, thoughtfully, taking advantage of the unexpected outbursts to note true intent, learning from each angry word, each whispered comment.

  Adu raised his voice as he brought his hands over his head. His voice echoed far more than the acoustics of the chamber could explain, as if thunder had rumbled out of him. The sconces in the courtyard flared and the flames shivered as they changed to a bright blue color for an instant, then back to normal. The room fell silent.

  Adu spoke slowly, with power and menace in each word. He repeated his name several times, striking his fist to his chest each time he said it. He pointed to the king and then to the murals on the walls depicting Agaja’s father and his fathers before him, all the kings of Dahomey, as his voice softened slightly but maintained its forceful authority.

  Adu gestured broadly, as if he were trying to encompass all the world in his arms. He lowered his voice to a growl and asked Agaja a question, pointing
to a tapestry of yellow and blue dyed cloth, adorned with strips of gold and pearl, that hung in a shadowy corner of the room. The king nodded toward the cloth and quietly gave a command. A servant, trembling, pulled the tapestry aside to reveal another mural painted on the wall.

  It was drawn in a very primitive, simplistic style, like cave paintings. The style immediately reminded Anne of the pictures on the box with the map. The first picture depicted an array of creatures—giant, angry, and alien—looming over tiny huddled figures of men. Beneath the puny men was a circle and curled within that ring was a thing that looked like a coiled snake.

  The second picture had small figures, women, with spears and fire, arms raised in defiance of the cyclopean monsters. One figure that stood alone was that of a man with seeming lightning bolts coming from him, slaying monsters. Several of the creatures were on fire, others flailed, spears piercing their flesh and some of the giants lay slain, the women standing victorious atop them.

  The serpent in the circle remained unchanged in the second mural, coiled and unmoving.

  Adu pointed to the murals and raised his voice again. He gestured to the assembled Ahosi and then to Anne, pointing markedly at her and proclaiming something in a booming voice.

  “Merde,” Bellrose muttered.

  “Aye,” Anne said.

  Agaja stood and spoke. The king’s voice, a deep bass, filled all the empty spaces in the chamber and was easily the equal of Adu’s. He turned to the woman at his side, nodded to her and then looked across the room to Anne.

  “We shall see,” the king said, in English. He clapped his hands once and called out a command in Fon. The court musicians began to play. The fiddle-like instruments, called soku, each played a single note, the musicians working in perfect union to create a driving rhythm. Several types of drums, the goblet-shaped djembe, and the akuba, thudded out an insistent tattoo. The shekere, bead-covered gourds, hissed like the hot afternoon rain, and the royal singers slid their voices up and down the range, warbling a single note in melisma, as they brought the whole court to sing, sway and clap to the music.