by Tanith Lee
Her eyes did not blast them. Her eyes turned them.
It was not unpleasant now, merely easy. They moved about, and those that needed to remounted their animals, which had become docile. They rode away.
They had gone three miles back along their route at a serene unhurried pace, before the leader, trotting now to the rear of his soldiery, came to himself with a violent start.
Only then did he hear the dying rumble of the avalanche, which had blocked the pass, between the rebels and themselves.
16.
WHEN THE FIGURE HURRIED OUT at him from the colonnade, Rarmon reacted faster than his own guard. But the man dropped to one knee, bowing, an obeisance of Visian Karmiss.
Rarmon’s guard was standing in close, hand to sword, by then. He nudged the man.
“Get up.”
“When,” said the man, “the Lord Rarmon tells me.”
The guard looked inquiringly at Rarmon.
Rarmon said, “Get up, then. And say what you want.”
The man rose. He was Vis and very dark. More than that. Though he had none of the accent, he had a look of Zakoris.
“What do I want, my lord? A word in private.”
Rarmon had been coming from exercise, across the courts of Anackyra’s Storm Palace. This spot was a thoroughfare, a hub of much of the palace’s traffic. The fountain and the scented vines also ensured aristocratic loiterers. For a sudden meeting it was in itself far from private. Without looking about, Rarmon knew their tableau was already well-observed.
He said to the guard, “Step back.” To the man he said, “What nation are you?”
“Yes, lord Prince. I have Zakorian blood. But I’m half Dortharian to sugar it. I feel the war councils of the Storm Lord. A paid informer against Yl.”
“A traitor, in other words.”
“No, lord Prince. I was born in Vardian Zakoris. My King’s Sorm of Vardath, Dorthar’s ally. And I serve Dorthar.”
“Who sent you to me?”
“One you, lord Prince, betrayed.”
Rarmon looked at him. The man’s eyes flinched away, but returned. “Who would that be?”
“A mighty lord, who’d not forget your worth, though you forget his bounty.”
“I see. You are then a Vardish Zakorian, aiding Forthar, and acting for Kesarh Am Karmiss. Does all that never make you dizzy?”
“My lord. I carry the messages of those who pay me.”
“What’s the message?”
“None, as yet. I’m to sound you. Would you gladly receive a messenger from the Lord Kesarh?”
“He knows not. I told him so. Then why are you here? To display the bastard brother in conversation with a Zakorian spy?”
The man took one perfectly coordinated backward step.
“Wait a moment,” said Rarmon. The man waited. “Since this will be going into the annals of court gossip, I must try to cleanse my reputation. Go to Kesarh for recompense if I loosen your teeth.” Moving forward with the swiftness of a cat, Rarmon struck the man and sent him staggering. Pitching his voice to travel, Rarmon called: “That’s all I have for Zakoris.”
Not looking back, Rarmon continued into the colonnade and so to his apartments.
Vencrek, the suspicious and unliking Warden, might have primed the man. A test on all fronts—current loyalty to Dorthar, past loyalties to Karmiss. One trusted it was a test, not simply the machinery of discredit.
Discussion of war had been continuous all month. Kesarh, in possession of Lan and Elyr, and received delicate offers without response, offering in turn only cordial and empty communications. He seemed abruptly disinclined to be wooed, after all. Dorthar already attempted to reconstruct her campaigns, in the likelihood the east must now simultaneously be dealt with too. Both the oratory and the military deployments had acquired a muddled and bombastic ring. Raldanash’s composure began to look like indifference, the old passivity of the Lowlands.
For the Lowlanders themselves, you saw them sometimes, passing through the palace or the streets, just such pale all-indifference to everything. Men stepped aside, bowing, keeping a distance. Children were prevented from playing outside Amanackire houses in the suburbs. They were not only respected, but plainly feared. More, or less, than the Black Leopard of Free Zakoris, Rarmon could not be sure.
It rained. The leaves rotted. Anackyra was full of gloomy forecast and idiotic bravura.
Last year at the end of the hot months, Rarmon had been Rem, riding hills that were then Lan’s own, looking for Kesarh’s child. . . .
Dorthar had given Rem very little, that was his. The luxury and the title and the apparent power were ultimately weightless and meant nothing. In the war, he would have an honorable and exalted command and maybe die. Nothing, again. Dorthar had given him nothing.
Once or twice he wondered if Yannul’s son had got home. But Yannul, and Lur Raldnor also, inhabited the land of the past.
• • •
The man who waylaid Yeize, chief lady to Ulis Anet, was not a Zakorian.
He stole upon her as she, with other women of the connubial courts, was hastening down the Imperial Hill from the Anackire Temple. It was early twilight, and dry, though a brisk wind ran from the northern mountains, rattling the forest trees above. But the man murmured to Yeize, whose heart was full of romance, and she was quickly drawn aside. The others, deeming in an assignation, went on.
Some hours later, preparing her mistress for bed, Yeiza snipped a small lock of blood-red hair, under the plea it grew awry. Later yet, when the Queen withdrew to her inner chamber, Yeiza was able to appropriate one of the silver ribbons plaited into the red hair at dinner.
Initially, the girl had been outraged at the idea of stealing anything from her lady. However, the go-between was very charming and persuasive. After all, his master, who had sent him on this mission, could be expected to return a trinket with interest. While, as long as the token was something recognizably the Queen’s, it need be of slight significance.
The ribbon was, Yeiza thought, an apt and artistic choice. Even if the go-between had not forced payment on her, to do this service for her poor neglected mistress and the elegant lord Prince Rarmon could have been a pleasure.
Since Lur Raldnor’s departure, Yeiza had been frankly bored. Her mood was further soured by a growing disconsolation that Iros was now seldom in person about Ulis Anet’s courts. Yeize had decided, with great poignancy, that she was in love with Lord Iros. She was sure she could win him—had he not often shown himself attracted? But not with the Queen as a rival.
On the other hand, here was Ulis Anet, pining for want of attention. Yeiza, who oversaw the appointments of the bedchamber, knew quite well that, though he had been closeted with his new wife, Raldanash had not lain with her. After the hunt at Kuma, Ulis Anet grew strange, withdrawn and listless. She seemed not to know herself or care what went on, observing form, but no more. She was like someone recovering from a debilitating illness. Except that she did not recover.
Since the night Lord Rarmon had saved her mistress from disgrace, Yeiza had astutely guessed he loved Ulis Anet. Had he not already heroically rescued her from her runaway chariot after the earthquake? Had he not banished Iros from her vicinity? As for Ulis Anet herself, it was equally obvious she had conceived a passion for Rarmon. She had trusted him with her life, allowing him to find Iros in her bedchamber. She had come back from Kuma, where she had so often seen him, like a creature without a soul.
The man in the twilight had proved Yeiza’s clever deductions were correct. His master, Rarmon, required a token from the Queen. She had so far refused from loyalty to Raldanash, though, as the go-between stressed, Rarmon was the one lover who could protect her and offer her the honor she merited.
Presently, the conspiracy became more personal.
Suppose the token could be gained without Ulis Anet’s knowled
ge? Her guilt would not be roused, but the Lord Rarmon would assume himself at liberty to come to her. Once two such persons were alone together with privacy and a bed, who could doubt nature must take its course?
Yeiza did not doubt. She even suspected in this the connivance of the Storm Lord himself. She had heard talk by now that all his women were left alone at night and encouraged to remedy the matter as they wished.
She had also noticed how this apartment connected by a garden walk to a number of deserted courts before reentering the outer environs of the palace. For clandestine visitors, the way was fortuitous.
Nor did Yeiza forget, going out to deposit the lover’s token with Rarmon’s servant, to leave the door on to that walk unlocked.
• • •
Iros Am Xarabiss, commander of the guard of Xarabians attendant on one of the Storm Lord’s lesser queens, checked drunk and ill-humored at the foot of the Imperial Hill. He had been trying tonight to buy his way instead into a position of battle command, filled by a rage to kill Free Zakorians, which conveniently masked for him his septic rebuke at the hands of Ulis Anet. But the bribery had not gone well. He felt himself insulted. He felt himself seen through. He, who was the son of Xaros, hero of the Lowland War. The wine had flowed angrily at an expensive inn.
Up in the air the fire-eyes of the Rarnammon statue blazed.
Below, the man stood bowing in its shadow.
Then something was extended, and slipped into Iros’ hand.
“Do you know this tress of hair, my lord?”
Iros stared. The pole-torches of the city gave excellent light.
“And the ribbon,” said the man. “You may have seen her wear that at supper.”
“How did you come by it?”
“No need for alarm, my lord. My mistress could assure you of that. She asks you to attend her this evening.”
Iros lurched forward. The man drew back.
“Ulis—” Iros said. His tongue was thick, and his head, but his heart raced now to clear them.
“You’re to go where the paper tells you. Be there by midnight, my lord.”
Iros did not even look at the paper until the man slithered away across the square. Breakers of huge emotion were rocking the commander. Now she would heal his lacerations with love.
He had never really doubted she must return to him as soon as she was able. He held the lock of hair to his lips, breathing in its fragrance, a lust on him like Zastis, already planning all he would say to her, do with her.
Only when he peered at the paper was he rather aggravated. It seemed a long and curious way to go for prudence’s sake.
• • •
Ulis Anet woke in a vague dim horror that had no source. All about the night was quiet. The aromatic lamps burned low, flickering. A bird fluttered its wings in a jeweled cage.
She had dreamed of a sailed boat, black on a dying sunset sea, rowed toward a shore of snow. One man sat behind the sail. She could not make out his face.
He held her in his arms.
She left the bed. She was afraid—or was it fear?
A masculine voice spoke from the doorway, startling her so much she could only turn to him slowly, almost calmly. There were two of them, white-cloaked, Raldanash’s elite guard.
“Forgive me, madam,” one of them said again. “You must come with us. Dress quickly. There’s little time.”
She did not move. Consternation had not yet reached her.
“What is it?”
“The Storm Lord’s received word Free Zakorian assassins have penetrated the grounds. These courts are vulnerable. The royal women are being escorted to safety.”
“Very well,” she said.
They retreated, and the curtain swung to.
Her pulses were clamoring now. Still it was not fear, and still the aura of the dream had not left her. Nevertheless she dressed swiftly, took up a mantle and went out to them in the antechamber.
Beyond the rooms the darkness was silent, as it usually was in this quarter of the palace. The men walked one on either side of her, tense and watchful. It would be possible to imagine a cutthroat in every shrub, behind every pillar. They reached a wall and a gate was opened. In an archway, a covered carriage waited. No guards were in evidence here, although this was one of the exits from the palace grounds.
“But where will I be taken?” she said.
“Just get in, lady. For your safety.”
She obeyed them. They did not follow her. The door was fastened shut and instantly the carriage was moving.
They were proceeding uphill at a jolting heavy gallop—toward the Anackire Temple?
Presently she found the window-spaces of the carriage were also immovably covered and she might not see out of them. The door had been secured from the outside.
She was a prisoner, rushed toward some unknown fate. She suddenly thought: Can Raldanash mean to have me murdered?
• • •
The ruins of Koramvis were eerie and desolate by night. Iros left his chariot, and walked down to the edge of the River Okris. The directions on the paper were explicit, the standing house with the tall tree in its courtyard quickly located. He ascended the river terrace, stumbling on the misplaced flags, and pushed open broken doors.
There was a stairway, and at the top a hint of the faint topaz glow of a lamp.
He grinned with relief, and his excitement came back to warm him.
Iros mounted the stair, went through the shadows and into a salon. And found, in the light of a single bronze lamp, that he had been surrounded by men in coal-black mail. Men who showed their teeth. One of whom said, “Not exactly the feast you had in mind, eh, Xarabian?”
He tried to draw sword, but someone stopped him. Iros himself was not in mail, and someone else drove a knife through his ribs into his heart.
He was not quite dead as they dragged him down the stairs, but he was no longer an arrogant officer, no longer a proud peacock. He was a boy, sobbing in his soul for Xarabiss and the laughing father who had carried him on his shoulders, and for light, and for life.
But poised in the air all he saw were the hard stars of Dorthar, and the black river of Dorthar gaped for him, before his passage cleaved it.
• • •
The jouncing jolting ride seemed to last forever, the zeebas galloping in fits and starts, as was their wont. When the carriage stopped and the door was opened, she saw the upper foothills of Dorthar’s mountains had come closer. Jumbles of masonry informed her further. She was on the outskirts of Koramvis, far above Anackyra’s plain. There seemed to be the remains of a wharf, and beyond that the ancient river.
Beside her were soldiers. Two others riding up were those who had conducted her from her apartment; they were no longer dressed in the garb and blazon of Raldanash’s Chosen Guard.
She stood and looked at them all. She was not afraid, only very cold, with the esoteric awe of these men a child may sometimes experience for adults.
One approached her, offering her a cup with wine in it.
It was incongruous. She did not accept the cup, but she said, “Is it poison?”
“No, lady. We’ve had instructions you’re not to be harmed, only cherished. But there’s some way to go by river. This will help you to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep.”
“Yes, lady. It’ll be tedious for you otherwise. And you might make a fuss.”
“You’re not the Storm Lord’s men. Where are you taking me?”
“No questions now, lady. Drink the drink.”
One said behind her, “Or we may have to put you to slumber another way.”
“You were told not to harm me,” she said frigidly, wondering how she could speak at all.
“It won’t harm you. A slight pressure to the side of the throat. But not pleasant. Better to do as we a
sk.”
She stepped away from him. There was nowhere to run. She allowed the other to give her the cup. It smelled herbal under the wine, nothing more. Poisons surely, did not smell this way? Besides, what choice.
When she had drunk she let the cup fall. A man picked it up. Another picked her up in turn. The drug was imperative and already she was will-less, helpless. She remembered when she had known such a sensation before. She admitted where she must be going, then, and felt a curious shame.
By the time they rested her in the boat, the woman was unconscious. They knew better than to sport with her, though she was alluring, beautiful and young.
They rowed upstream.
When the dawn began to show, they were many miles away.
• • •
Raldanash sat quietly, listening.
“Events are but too blatant, Storm Lord.” Vencrek posed. “Guards who claim to have seen nothing—obviously bribed to be elsewhere. The two of your Lordship’s own guard killed and stripped naked, hidden in bushes. Patently their garments were used as disguise for the Xarabian’s men. The tracks of a carriage were found, going up into the hills toward the ruined city—My own men have scoured the area without success—a decoy, perhaps. Others have gone the opposite way, to investigate the roads south into Ommos and Xarabiss.”
Raldanash said, “And your conclusion, Lord Warden?”
Vencrek stared at him. They had known each other as children in Vathcri. For a few seconds, Vencrek was too exasperated to remain suave. “Raldanash—this Vis bitch has made you a laughing-stock—”
Raldanash did not respond. There was nothing to be seen, no jealous fury, no passion, not even embarrassment.
“Pardon me, my lord,” said Vencrek. “Your honor is dear to me. You asked my conclusion. Very well. There can be only one. Your Queen Ulis Anet has adulterously run off with her commander, Iros. It’s widespread knowledge they were lovers prior to her marriage. He boasted of it and raged about her loss through half the wine-shops and brothels of Anackyra.”
The limited number of counselors who had been admitted to this scene murmured gruffly. One, a Vis, said, “Your lordship should solace himself that they’ve nowhere safe to run to, and must be discovered. Dorthar’s antique laws, I’d recommend, should be observed. This Iros to be publicly castrated and then hanged. The woman—”