Merchant and Empire

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  "The gods go with you," the emperor said, then resumed his seat. Hugan remained standing, tail still, ears still, eyes narrowed. What was he thinking? If he were considering nibbling on the herald, Tycho questioned the cat's sense of taste. He also questioned the herald's taste, given the over-done crimson stitching on his boots and hose. Men did not draw attention to their legs so. That was what professional women did, those advertising their wares and attributes.

  Once the men of Liambruu had departed, the emperor looked over to Tycho. "Master Tycho, what say you of the message?"

  Tycho bowed. "Most Imperial Majesty, if you mean the content, it is no more or less than I expected, although I question King Sanchohaakon's definition of 'generous'." Some snorts and chuckles followed his words, but stilled when the emperor raised one finger. "The seal and the writing... were odd to my eyes, Most Imperial Majesty. The pen appeared to have been cracked or cut, something I would not expect on an official royal rescript."

  "And the seal?"

  Tycho blinked again. How to put into words? "Most Imperial Majesty, black on black is not the easiest to read. It appeared as if the seal were blurry, at least at first. Once I touched it and drew it closer to my eyes, the seal appeared to be correct, and the device matches that on other crown documents that I have seen, business documents concerning payments and trade, Most Imperial Majesty," he clarified. "If there is a separate diplomatic seal, I am not familiar with it, Most Imperial Majesty."

  "There is not." The emperor frowned, stroking his mustache. "We do not change our plans or our ways. The gods have shown their will and we will not deny what our eyes have seen."

  Maarsdam's Son bowed and stepped forward. "Nor should you, Your Imperial Majesty. A spell rested on the seal, what kind I do not know, but Master Tycho inadvertently broke it. It would appear that Liambruu's protests about magic are perhaps, a touch hypocritical."

  A sepulchral, hollow voice intoned from the far corner of the room, "Unless a third force works to pit the emperor against Liambruu." The Scavenger's Hand gestured, palm up. "Such has been heard of, but only neighbor against neighbor, not kingdom against kingdom."

  The emperor bowed his head toward the priest, acknowledging the caution. "We do not change our course unless we learn more. Thank you, Master Tycho, honored Fathers, for your observations."

  Tycho left the pfalz with far more questions than he knew what to do with. Why did Liambruu think that the gods favored them, given everything that had been happening? And what had been wrong with the seal? How could someone enchant it without the Liambruu delegation knowing, and why would they? Well, Tycho had to admit, without notary mages to certify seals, a great deal could be done and had been, and after the discovery of the foresworn notary mage in the north... His temper still rose at the memory of that betrayal. And who would want to pit Liambruu against the north, if they were?

  Tycho glanced north and saw clouds starting to mass, as if a storm brewed in the heavy, wet afternoon. Of course it would, now that they'd had to pack everything and move the animals and put away the tents. Of course it would rain, and probably startle the beasts and send them running. Tycho sighed. Radmar had not turned the Wheel in far too long.

  11

  The Gods Speak

  Tycho slept well that night. Too well, as he found when his right shoulder refused to cooperate at dawn. On the third try he managed to move his arm, and he tasted blood from biting his tongue to keep from crying out. He forced himself to move, first raising and lowering the arm, then moving it back and forth. Only when he could move it in circles without it bringing tears to his eyes did he attempt to stand and pull on his boots. For a fraction of an instant he hated not being able to visit a healing mage. Then he caught himself and begged Donwah's forgiveness. It was not Her fault that he'd landed wrong after failing to anticipate the great-hauler's foolishness.

  He finished his water skin and gnawed through way bread. The spices made it at least close to edible food, although he had no desire to live on it, as some claimed to do. He'd wear out his teeth and jaws.

  Hot water and tea, and slices of roasted beast could be found at the fire for his section, and he helped himself. A sweet under-taste in the tea eased the strength of the herbs. "If you're not awake after this," a guard held up his mug, "you need to see a priest."

  "Aye that," Tycho grunted.

  Dawn brought heat and steam. Tycho noticed that some of the northerners had wilted and the ovstrala refused to move, lipping their food but not eating. His birds ate and dropped waste with gusto, however, perhaps trying to set a good example. On the other hand, if he were forced to wear a heavy fur coat in this weather, he wouldn't want to move much, either.

  Borghind strode up and stopped beside Tycho. "Will yon birds bolt in a storm?"

  "Not if the ovstrala don't. If the ovstrala run," Tycho gestured with his right hand. "I hope they go north. I don't care to try to swim after them if they go west."

  Borghind snorted. "At least if they go south they'll give the southern dolts a parting gift as they pass."

  "There's that." Given their weight, an ovstrala in a blind panic could probably rip down a lot of tents and flatted wagons if he were aimed in the proper direction.

  "You have a battle place?"

  "No, sir."

  Borghind rubbed under his nose, then smoothed his beard. "Go to the imperial wagon. They'll know what for you."

  That sounded reasonable. Tycho glanced up and saw that the clouds to the north drew closer, still dark towers like a sea storm at evening. The air went still, and Tycho hurried as best he could to where the imperial banner hung limp on its pole.

  "Here, Master Tycho," Maarsdam's Son called. Tycho stopped and bowed. "Those of us acting as witnesses, not warriors, will stay here." The priests had gathered at the edge of the guards' imperial section.

  "You just want to be near the baking tent," Gember's Daughter chuckled, nodding toward the small paunch under Yoorst's Son's grey robe.

  Tycho pretended not to hear the teasing. The priestess of the goddess of baking and grains should know. Had she been one of those who wielded bread-paddles when the boys tried to raid the goddess's ovens? It was hard to tell with her loose sleeves.

  "It begins," Korvaal's Son intoned. He pointed a brown-gloved hand toward the approaching black banner. The still, moist air carried sounds, and Tycho heard a soft, deep grumbling from the north, and murmurs from the south. The murmurs reminded him of the sound of a rising river, cold and deadly, and he took a firmer grip on his staff.

  "His most generous Majesty warns you," the herald called. "Cease your abominations and return to true worship of the gods. For their wrath approaches as I speak!"

  A cool, steady and strong voice replied, "No. Your lord is in error. Be wary that you do not mistake your will for that of the gods, whatever that will may be."

  "You bring doom onto yourself and your people," the herald shouted, turning and hurrying the black and silver banner to the south.

  Tycho's mouth went dry. He caught a glimpse of the emperor in armor, the blue of a clear winter sky and silver like the moon on clear water. Then the sound of marching, and banners appeared to the south. The black banner of Liambruu and others, probably god banners Tycho guessed, although he heard one of the priests asking, "What is that?" The murmur from the south grew stronger, and a feeling of wrongness filled the air as the faint morning light turned green.

  A wall of wind hurled against them from the south, striking the progress like a blow. The few standing tents tumbled or collapsed, people ducked or staggered, and dust and small rocks flew through the northerners. A wail like a woman tormented by birthing gone deadly awry cut the air, driving more to their knees. Tycho ducked, one hand over his ear. Another blow of wind struck and Tycho staggered, leaning into the wind. Around him, the northerners gasped, more dropping as if slapped down from above. What was it? Was it the gods? Had the men of Liambruu been right? The banners of Liambruu remained standing and even drew close
r, and Tycho could see shapes now, led by a figure in flame red and black. The light failed. He glimpsed soldiers behind the priests and king. Then the dark clouds that had massed to the north swept down on them.

  The priests of Liambruu and their king raised their hands in unison, and threw something like dust into the wind. Darkness rose, a black fog, and thunder snarled down onto the land. Lightning flashed and Tycho hoped that someone had secured the ovstrala and the great-haulers, because otherwise they would be chasing beasts well into the next sailing season and across the entire empire.

  The men of Liambruu advanced, chanting and lowering pikes and spears. The few imperials still standing formed a pike and shield-wall as well, and Tycho retreated out of the way as archers reached for crossbow bolts. "Yield now, or the gods' wrath will smite you!" Then the herald from Liambruu shrieked. A black rod pierced his chest, going through his armor. He dropped. Who had fired?

  Wind stronger than Tycho had encountered on land slapped men and tents alike even stronger than before, blowing from north and east together, shoving them to the ground. Green lightning flared, and red, striking the imperials around Tycho. He dropped to the ground. Nothing more happened, and he rose to one knee, then stood. Another gust of wind pounded against him as thunder shook the land.

  Wait! Ears deafened from the roar of the storm, Tycho staggered but remained standing. He had felt a tingle on his skin, but nothing like the blows that struck down the others. That meant it could not be god power. Or had the gods simply spared him? No, that made no sense. Tycho staggered again, then bent double and loped through the darkness and flashes to where he had last seen the imperial banner.

  Mimir Borghindson stood strong, a shield of magic around him and Hugan. The cat turned and looked at Tycho, who bowed a little. Dare he approach the emperor while he worked magic? Tycho decided against it, and returned to where the priests crouched. One of the priests of Donwah had risen to his knees, and Tycho helped him stand. "I felt only the wind, your honor," Tycho squeaked. He coughed and tried again. "This is man magic, not god magic."

  The blue-clad man's eyes seemed to narrow, what Tycho could see behind his veil. "We need, there—" He pointed to a heap of black. The Scavenger's Hand stirred as well, and Tycho gulped, then went to assist him.

  "Ugh. Someone," the voice from inside the hood shifted, taking on a hollow, resonate sound and dropping in pitch. Now Tycho felt something. God magic moved. The hair on his neck stood, and he released the priest's elbow, backed two steps, and bowed low. "Someone has forgotten the laws of three."

  The what? Tycho did not want to know what the Scavenger's priest meant. He eased farther away as the brown-clad priest of Korvaal and priestess of Gember also stood, moving to join Donwah's speaker. As they did, Tycho glanced toward the emperor and Hugan. The cat—something overshadowed the cat, a form like a woman, but taller than mortals, and whiter and bluer, colder than anything in the world that Tycho knew.

  The gods walked. Tycho fell to his knees, terrified. What had Shanchohaakon unleashed on the world, to bring the gods into the battle?

  "Twice have we warned our wayward son," a cold voice hissed. Tycho heard sleet and snow in the words and the air chilled with each syllable. "What say you, bothers and sisters?"

  "Three times has he offended, three times insulted, three times disobeyed," Donwah's Son intoned.

  "He violates Our laws, touches that We have forbidden to men," Korvaal's Son stated.

  The Scavenger's Hand seemed to loom, darker and blacker even than the storm clouds boiling above the priests and battle. "He claims what We have reserved for Ourselves. He is Ours."

  Ice flashed, blue and white, as the strange goddess grew solid and loomed over both the emperor and the cat. The emperor cast daggers of ice toward the king of Liambruu. The first blows shattered against the king's defenses, but the second and third waves penetrated. Sanchohaakon screamed. The wind answered the scream, and Tycho covered his ears, ducking lower.

  Donwah's Son made a flowing gesture with one hand, and water swept down on Liambruu's priests, water sweet and foul together, knocking some of the men off their feet. The ground trembled and Korvaal's Son spread his hands. Cracks appeared in the ground and Tycho crouched as low as he could, terrified to watch and terrified to look away. Maarsdam's Son raised his staff. Golden fire danced on the golden caps, then lashed out toward the Liambruu lines. At the same time, more golden fire rose in walls between the imperials and Liambruu. Something thudded, and enormous beasts—ovstrala, schaef, wild creatures and tame—galloped through Liambruu's soldiers, scattering those few still standing. Tycho heard screams and crunching sounds under the storm's fury, and made himself part of the rocks and soil, shorter than even the stunted grass, he hoped.

  "Sssssooo," the blue and white goddess hissed. "So end all who defy Our laws, corrupt Our gifts, and refuse Our words. We have woken, and We are justice!"

  Tycho closed his eyes and covered his ears. The very air shook in pain as the gods smote Liambruu's men. The earth wailed. No man living should see such things, Tycho knew, praying to be ignored, for mercy, for something to erase the memory of what transpired around him.

  Silence. Stillness. Nothing moved. Tycho lowered his hands, shaking so that he jammed his tongue between his teeth to still the rattling. He felt the moment between lightning and thunder, the last moment before Donwah's great wave struck a ship, the instant of stopped breath between life and death. He opened his eyes. The space between him and the priests and the emperor had been swept bare, northerners pushed to the sides, clearing the ground. An enormous white tower rose against the black sky, rooted in Hugan, a woman-shaped pillar of snow and night and cold. The white form turned, looking at Tycho. She raised one transparent blue hand, ice forming around her fingers. The air chilled, and something dreadful and wild moved in the air. Wind, life, death, swirled, tearing at his clothing and hair.

  "No, sister," Donwah's priest called.

  "No, sister," the others echoed, forming a line between Tycho and Sneelah's beast. "This is not the time. The time remains ours. Yours will come again." Only the Scavenger seemed silent, but he stood with the others, facing Sneelah. Something moved, a sound roared outside of hearing but Tycho felt it. "No sister," the priests and priestess repeated. "Our task is done here." The scream of winter winds cut to Tycho's bones, then silence, heavy, strong, terrible.

  "Mrow?" a cat spoke, just a cat, a cat like any other, if a touch oversized.

  Yoorst's priest shook one finger toward the sound. "Naughty, naughty kitty! You bury that, now, like a proper cat."

  "Mroh." Tycho heard scuffing, and eased up to one knee as the priests moved apart. Hugan scraped soil over a small mound.

  "That's better."

  Maarsdam's Hand turned to Tycho. "Rise, brother Tycho. Your emperor needs your strength. I fear Sneelah, in her rage, forgot that she is not mistress here and drew too much on her vessel."

  The second-to-last thing Tycho wanted to do at that moment was approach the emperor, but he gulped and eased to his feet with a creak and wince, then moved slowly to where Lord Hugan stood, tail still, sniffing a pile of blue and white fabric. Tycho sketched a bow to the cat, who stepped sideways, giving Tycho room. He crouched, then went to one knee, and eased the sleeve up and glove down on one wrist, feeling for a pulse. The emperor's heart raced but the pace slowed as Tycho waited. He rolled the emperor from his side to his back, and opened the collars on his shirt and doublet, unfastening the chain on his cape and loosening his breast plate as well. Tycho moved fur and fabric aside for the moment. Mimir's face held a little color in the cheeks, and his lips seemed pink. That was a good sign. He also breathed.

  "Ah, my lord, should I try to wake him?" Tycho asked Hugan, for lack of a better idea.

  The cat blinked a few times, then shook his head. He sat and started washing one paw.

  Well, an understandable answer from a cat was more than sufficient miracle for Tycho, so he leaned back, then got to his feet. He fin
ally looked around. He and a few northmen moved, but none of the men of Liambruu. Of their priests Tycho saw no sign, but he did not intend to go looking for remains, either. Instead he re-traced his path to where Maarsdam's priest and another stood.

  A trembling acolyte bowed very low and held out Tycho's staff. "Sir."

  Tycho took it, then saw that the caps now bore gilded as well as silvered iron. He almost dropped the heavy staff, but caught himself just in time. What the gods presented to a man should be accepted, he reminded himself. "Thank you," he managed. He needed a drink of water, clean water, nothing but water, or perhaps good northern ale. Ale would be very good. Or a stout dark beer, but perhaps that would be too heavy for the heat. Heat? The air now felt cool, as if a storm had washed through and broken the miserable stickiness and over-warmth.

  "Brother, I do hope that the Great Traveler and his brothers and sisters are able to go for some time without having to be so," the priest coughed. "I will say direct, in their way of chastising the lapsed."

  Before Tycho could cobble together a reply, Donwah's Son appeared. "I heartily agree. The Lady of Waters is a touch heavy handed when she loses her temper, not that I disagree with her choice of actions." The priest sounded annoyed. "A touch more warning would be nice."

  "Agreed," Gember's Daughter said, limping a little as she walked up to where Tycho and the others stood. "And to think that my younger sister was envious of my being called by the Lady. Hah!" The elder priestess planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the heaps of tent, unattended fires, and groaning people. "Our masters do tend to leave rather impressive messes for their poor mortal tools to tidy up."

  "Yes." The black-hooded priest sounded amused. He stalked off toward the remains of Liambruu's army. Tycho thought that the dark figure moved with almost joyous steps, if such a thing were possible, and he shivered despite the lovely, warm, soft sun.

  "Our brother takes perhaps too much pleasure in the carnage," Donwah's Son intoned.