Pride of Empires (The Powers of Amur Book 3)

by J. S. Bangs

  The Rice Gate opened to admit the Emperor, his daughter, and his new son-in-law, followed by the crowd. Sadja glanced back as he climbed the stairs from the Rice Gate to confirm the number of invitees: about two hundred in all.

  That would be enough witnesses.

  They filed through the antechambers and into the Green Hall, spilling out of the colonnade and into the orange garden. The servants were nearly as numerous as the guests, mingling to offer them bowls of rice beer, treats of coconut and cane sugar, and baked pastries filled with lamb and cheese.

  Sadja pushed through the crowd insistently, looking for his retainer. He found Bhargasa among a cluster of Red Men in wedding finery guarding the door.

  Bhargasa saluted him with a nod.

  Sadja leaned close and whispered into his ear. “Any trouble?”

  Bhargasa shook his head. “No trouble at all. The Emperor’s Spear has been glad for my help. And the Red Men have been happy with the command Vadya delegated to me.”

  “And where is Vadya?”

  Bhargasa pointed to the dais of the Seven-Stepped Throne where the wedding party was arrayed. Basadi and Lushatha sat on cushioned chairs with a festal table spread before them, laden with gold dishes and endless piles of treats. Basadi’s brother Kundir and his wife sat to Basadi’s left with the rest of Praudhu’s relations, while Lushatha’s family sat to the groom’s right. Praudhu sat on the Seven-Stepped Throne behind the wedding party. A line of Red Men stood at his right and left. Red sashes over white kurtas, spears at the ready and short knives at their sides.

  “Vadya is on the top stair,” Bhargasa whispered. “Behind the Emperor, as befits the Emperor’s Spear.”

  Sadja nodded. “And the rest of them?”

  “Good men. Reliable.” He nodded solemnly.

  “And what of Vadya himself?”

  Bhargasa hesitated. “Less reliable. I would stand away from him, at least until we know how he’ll fall.”

  “I’ll put myself by Basadi-dar. But not yet. Let the evening wind on, let everyone get a little drunk first.”

  The guests ate extravagantly and drank freely. A few of the majakhadir were visibly drunk by the time the speeches came around, and many more were a little bleary-eyed and swaying slightly.

  Sadja did not put himself forward first. First was Udagra, majakhadir of Tulakhanda, a doddering old man with a pleasant smile. He was evidently an old friend of the imperial family. His speech was the broad, non-specific flattery of the Emperor and his daughter that Sadja expected, mixed in with a few reminisces about Praudhu’s father Jandurma. He finished and sat down to a smattering of polite murmuring, and then the next person wishing to give flattery rose to his feet.

  The tepid, unexciting speeches went on for about an hour. Finally, Yasma rose to his feet, the highest ranking of the guests save Sadja. Sadja looked across the room at Bhargasa, who stood near the entrance. Bhargasa nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

  “My beloved Emperor, Praudhu-daridarya, whose name we say with fear and trembling, I salute you,” Yasma said, raising both of his palms toward Praudhu. He swayed slightly. Drunk. Sadja shot Jasthi a glance, and she rolled her eyes.

  “My beloved Emperor,” Yasma continued, “it was five years ago, during the reign of your father Jandurma-daridarya, whom we remember with fear and trembling, that I was married to your elder daughter Jasthi-dar.” He put his hand on Jasthi’s head, first to gesture, then to steady himself. “I did not think any happiness could surpass the happiness I had that day. But I was wrong. This day—”

  He paused and put his hand over his mouth. Jasthi hung her head and put her hands over her eyes.

  “This day… this is the day. Because I can see you in your empire, upon the throne, and your daughter, there she is. Beautiful. More beautiful than Jasthi. Because you are the Emperor now, and now Lushatha is also your son-in-law, and together we will be like brothers, because you are the Emperor. Lushatha-kha, I’m so happy you are here. Basadi-dar, I wish you well, as well as I have appreciated your sister Jasthi-dar, thank you.”

  He bowed and sat down. Jasthi had her hands over her face, but she shot a glance sideways at Sadja, and he saw she was laughing rather than weeping in humiliation. His opinion of Praudhu’s elder daughter rose. With that cheerful thought he got to his feet.

  “Kushma whose feet are wet with blood, fill me now,” he whispered so quietly that no one could hear. “Come Kushma, come destroyer.”

  He raised his voice and gave Praudhu a florid bow. “To my most blessed Emperor. To his most beautiful daughter Basadi-dar and the venerable Lushatha-kha of Kaugali. I have been waiting for this day for years. It was only a few short months ago I first met with Lushatha-kha, and a few weeks since I first laid eyes on Basadi-dar. Yet even before I knew either of their names, I anticipated a day like this one, when I would stand in the presence of the Emperor with his daughter and her groom.

  “Of course, I had imagined at the time I would be the Emperor’s son-in-law. Praudhu-daridarya, whose name we say with fear and trembling, had held a long correspondence with me concerning the fate of his younger daughter, and an informal agreement for a betrothal had been reached before I came to Majasravi. Or so I thought.”

  A murmur of dismay passed through the throne room. The speech was not going as the guests had anticipated.

  “But never mind that!” Sadja said gregariously. “Lushatha-kha is well regarded by all in Majasravi from what I hear, and he is dear to many of your hearts and to the imperial line. For his sake Praudhu-daridarya was willing to break his promises to me and give his daughter to a lower-born man than myself. Who am I to begrudge him his success? In any case, I offer him my congratulations, as I have already tasted the fruit which he is about to enjoy, and it was sweet indeed.”

  The murmur of dismay turned into a roar. Sadja caught a glimpse of Lushatha’s face, riven by horror. Basadi smirked.

  “Honorable khadir and majakhadir of Majasravi, quiet, I urge you!” Sadja shouted. An anxious hush chilled the room. “Many of you know me and know I do not act rashly. I have spent many hours in the shadows speaking softly, but an hour comes when one must move into the light and speak openly so no doubt will remain in the hearts of those who hear. I’m delighted you’re all here today, with all of Praudhu-daridarya’s family, so you may witness, understand, and remember this day.”

  “What is your point, Sadja-dar?” called out Praudhu from his seat atop the Seven-Stepped Throne. He leaned forward with his chin resting on his hand, and he scowled at Sadja with a mixture of anger and fear.

  “My Emperor, I will be glad to bring you to the point. Ten generations past the great Aidasa of Davrakhanda lashed together the Seven Kingdoms of Amur into the glorious empire which we enjoy today. Aidasa of Davrakhanda, mind you. The kings of Davrakhanda count him as their ancestor to this day. Then the sons of Kupshira took the Ushpanditya from Aidasa’s lineage—”

  Praudhu stood. “What is your intent, Sadja-dar—”

  “Hush, Praudhu,” Sadja said. “I was almost done.”

  “You come close to treason,” Praudhu said.

  Sadja sighed. “I’m only coming close? Very well, I’ll skip to the end. The line of Aidasa is taking the throne back. Bhargasa, now.”

  Bhargasa drew his sword and pointed it to the ceiling. The Red Men who stood behind Praudhu’s brothers and sons on the dais drew forward, and with a swift motion drove their swords through their backs.

  The points of bronze swords emerged from their chests dripping blood. The stabbed men spasmed, coughed, and retched blood. The trays of food before them scattered, rice strewn over silk, mangoes rolling over the table and across the floor. Basadi’s brother Kundir collapsed forward. He grasped feebly at a silver goblet, leaking blood over the scattered delicacies. Everyone to Basadi’s left was dead.

  The room shuddered with screams.

  The khadir gathered in the hall surged for the exits, but found them blocked by Red Men bearing swords and spears. S
adja spared them only a glance. He walked slowly and deliberately toward the Seven-Stepped Throne. Lushatha looked around, his face twitching with horror. Basadi sat calmly with her hands folded in her lap. One of the Red Men behind Lushatha grabbed him by the hair.

  He screamed. The soldier lifted him up and slit his throat. A spray of blood splashed Basadi’s cheek. The soldier threw him forward, and his body tumbled down the stairs and collapsed at the foot of the dais, his blood pouring over the green marble.

  At the top of the dais, Praudhu had scrambled out of the throne and into the arms of Vadya. Three of Bhargasa’s Red Men advanced on the Emperor and his Spear. Praudhu scrambled into Vadya’s shadow, clinging to Vadya’s hand and throwing his guardian off balance.

  “Fool,” Sadja muttered.

  A quick clatter of swords, and Vadya was disarmed. He fell to his knees. “Mercy—”

  The Red Men stabbed him through the throat. He gurgled and collapsed to the ground.

  Sadja stepped onto the first stair of the Seven-Stepped Throne.

  Praudhu cowered behind the gilded throne. “Save me,” he said. “I am your Emperor. You will not—”

  “Leave him,” Sadja said. The blood of Vadya and Lushatha dripped down the steps of the dais and soaked the carpet. Sadja climbed another stair. Praudhu clutched at the back of the throne, peeking over it with eyes wide with terror.

  “Sadja-dar. Sadja-dar, you helped me—”

  “Close your mouth,” Sadja said. “Give me a sword.” The nearest member of the imperial guard knelt and gave Sadja the hilt of his sword.

  Sadja climbed to the top of the Seven-Stepped Throne. His green silk slippers were wet with blood. The hem of his dhoti was red with carnage.

  He pointed the tip of the sword at Praudhu. “Get out from behind my throne.”

  Praudhu crawled around the corner of the chair and threw himself at Sadja’s feet. “Sadja-dar. My dearest advisor. Most loyal king of the Empire. Let me—”

  “If you had kept your promises,” Sadja said, “then there was a small chance you might have survived this night. But let’s be honest: I probably would have killed you anyway.”

  Praudhu began to blubber. Sadja calmly thrust his sword through Praudhu’s neck.

  A half-strangled scream sounded in Praudhu’s throat. Sadja kicked him onto his back and stabbed him again through the ribs, and a third time in the gut. The screaming died into a gurgle. Sadja kicked the twitching body down the stairs of the dais with the heel of his foot. It rolled down the seven steps and sprawled at the bottom between Vadya and Lushatha, blood spreading like a stain of red ink.

  Sadja wiped the blade free of blood with the hem of his kurta and handed it back to the Red Men. He stood atop the dais and looked over the khadir and majakhadir.

  No one spoke. The only sounds were retching and quiet sobbing.

  “Basadi-dar, come here,” he said.

  Basadi rose from her place atop a red-and-gold-threaded cushion and lifted the hem of her sari. She stepping daintily between the rivulets of blood running down the steps of the dais. At the top she bowed before Sadja. Sadja extended her his hand, and she kissed it.

  “Sadja-daridarya,” she said, loud enough for the room to hear. “My Emperor.”

  Sadja pulled her upright, put his hand around her waist, and pulled her into him. He kissed her on the lips, firmly and harshly. “Basadi-daridarya,” he said. “My Empress. Is this a suitable wedding present?”

  “It is exactly what I had hoped for.”

  He looked out over the room again. Shocked stillness like a black smoke.

  And then a scream sounded from his left, from those near the balcony. He looked toward them with a mild annoyance. “There is no need—”

  A tumult grew, spreading from the colonnade toward the center of the hall. People screamed and covered their eyes, turning away, not from him, but from the night sky. Sadja knotted his brows in annoyance. The khadir were supposed to see and fear him tonight, but he had no idea what was disturbing them now. He gestured to the Red Men surrounding him and descended the stairs.

  The stars turn to blood, the cry went up.

  The Red Men pushed through the crowd, and he marched to see the cause of the commotion. The khadir drew away from him and his escorts, murmuring, averting their eyes.

  Shouts went on. An omen. The heavens are marred.

  He reached the colonnade and looked up. The Serpent hung low over the western horizon. The single point of red in its heart was there—no, not a point. All the stars of the Serpent were turned red. Red, red like blood, dripping—

  He felt suddenly nauseous. He could not look away.

  The whole of the Serpent was red. He heard a grinding in his ears, a hissing, and felt a vast hunger, a voracious maw opening after a restless sleep. Red, the stars turned red, and the earth heaved.

  Around him people screamed. He could not look away. The room grew dark. He saw only points of red. He fell head first into the darkness.

  A voice sounded, loud and ominous, shaking the brittle beauty of the blood-soaked stars with its sound.

  “She wakes. Woe to the sickle and the spear. Woe to the feather and the sea.”

  The voice was his. He could not control it. It bubbled up from his belly and poured out of his mouth like vomit. Irresistible. Uncontrollable.

  “The devourer wakes. Woe to the moon and the sun. Woe to the fire and the scale. The curse and the promise are renewed. Burn the fields, scatter the seed. Weep for your salvation and bless the hour of your death.”

  His limbs grew weak. The red stars in the sky blurred and swam. Everything around him faded into darkness.

  “She wakes.”

  The prophecy left. The weakness of his flesh overwhelmed him. He fell. Screaming and weeping. Distant, meaningless noise.

  Darkness took him.

  Navran

  The air over Virnas was still and moist, drawing upward the stink of the midden beneath the southeast corner of the wall. The stench of rot and sewage mingled with the dank, swampy odors of the River Quarter, a fitting perfume for the day’s events.

  Thudra and his son Vidham stood before Navran at the top of the wall. Their hands were bound behind their backs and their feet tied together with ropes. Dastha and a half-dozen of Navran’s palace guard watched. Yavada stood a little ways off, watching with a mild smile on his face among a crowd of other khadir and merchants of Virnas. Veshta was somewhere in there. Thudra’s wife Sarmadi and their two daughters stood on the other side of the men, sobbing openly. Farther back, a mass of commoners filled the streets of the city, and outside the wall a thinner crowd watched from the edges of the midden.

  Navran felt nauseous.

  Dastha turned toward him with a grim, serious expression. “Any last things you want to say?”

  Navran shook his head. “Have the heralds do it.”

  The herald nodded and turned to the crowd. He began to shout.

  For treason against the Heir of Manjur and the King of Virnas Navran-dar, our lord and king; for injuries to Sundasha-kha, the Heir to Davrakhanda and a friend of the King of Virnas; for violence and treachery in spite of the mercy and patience of Navran-dar the King of Virnas…

  He went on. While the charges and punishments were read, Navran stepped closer to Thudra and said quietly, “Who wins this game of jaha?”

  Thudra turned and gave him a half-hearted sneer, tinged with too much dread to be properly contemptuous. “I suppose you’re going to offer me jahaparna?”

  Navran shook his head. “Jahaparna is defeat with honor. You had that when you lived in my house. Too late now.”

  Thudra shook his head. For a moment he looked at his wife and daughters, then at Vidham bound next to him. He sighed heavily and hung his head. The boy’s expression was entirely fearful, without even Thudra’s attempt at pride. A pang of regret passed through Navran.

  But he had been too kind before. This is how he would play the game.

  The herald finished spe
aking. A jeer of boos and curses rose from the crowd. Navran nodded to Dastha.

  The guards forced Thudra and his son to their knees. The swords were raised. Dastha gave the signal.

  A single, swift swipe cleaved through their necks. At the same moment they received a kick in the back. Their heads tumbled into the midden, separating gently from their bodies. The ropes at their ankles caught. The heads splashed down into the miry refuse while the bodies smacked against the outside of the wall, bounced once, then came to rest against the gray stone. The blood drained from their necks in spurts, dribbling down the wall and mingling with the sewage.

  Two young people at the edge of the midden waded in to try and recover the heads, but one of Navran’s archers loosed a single arrow in warning. The heads and bodies would stay there to rot.

  It was the way of kings.

  Navran turned away. Sarmadi and Thudra’s daughters were weeping, huddled together in a tight knot, faces buried in each others’ shoulders. Navran gestured to the palace guards surrounding them.

  “Quickly back to the palace,” he said. “Let no one bother them.”

  “Yes, my lord and king,” the guard said. They hurried the sobbing women away.

  He heard steps behind him and turned to see Yavada standing there, a pleasant, satisfied expression on his face.

  “A good present for Utalni-kha’s dowry, no?” he said. “Your worst enemy eliminated permanently.”

  Navran did not have the strength to dissemble. “I hate it.”

  Yavada’s placid expression broke for a moment. “I understand one wishes the matter of Thudra had been resolved more quickly.” He paused. “This is your first execution, isn’t it?”

  Navran nodded.

  “But surely you’ve seen one,” Yavada said. “Like these.” He gestured at the slowly-dispersing crowd that had come to witness Thudra’s demise.

  “I have,” Navran said. “It’s different when you’re up here.”

  “Different. I suppose it is.” Yavada nodded. “But don’t be dragged down. This evening we will celebrate your betrothal to my daughter Utalni-kha.”