Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “I’ll return,” said Ott. He made his way up the spiral, past Kollen and Tye, past the soldiers resting on the stones.

  Ren followed Ott. “When will you return?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  Kollen followed. “Where’s he going?”

  “He’s leaving.”

  “Then let’s follow him.”

  Ott was already halfway up the ramp, but Ren chased him to the top. “You and I,” said Ren. “We need time—to talk.”

  “I know,” said Ott as he left the temple. “But I can’t stay. My absence will be noted.” He made his way down a narrow corridor. Ren followed briefly, unable to stop himself. Ott begged him to quit. Then he disappeared down the long and dimly lit passage. Ren stood there, alone, his lamp raised. In the half-light, he caught sight of a black stain on the cobblestones, and when he took a step forward, he took notice of a second, then a third. A whole trail of them was laid out before him. Ott had marked the path that led out of the temple.

  24

  The cat’s ear blossomed to life, its frail petals unfolding like a pair of open hands. Sarra was curious. “Which hour does this one indicate?”

  “The third,” said the man who tended the garden. “Cat’s ear opens at the third bell each morning … well, almost. The low sun wreaks havoc on the little things, but they work well enough at this time of year.” His knees were half-sunk in the dirt, hands tearing at the roots of some weed that had snuck its way into the otherwise pristine garden.

  “Have you seen the clock?” the gardener asked.

  “Oh, many times, but it seldom ceases to amaze me,” Sarra said. She caught sight of the flowers planted alongside the cat’s ear, the sandspurry and crystallinum. Both seemed eager to blossom.

  “You know, it was never really the clock that interested me.” Kihl Chefren stepped from the shadows of a palm grove.

  “Really?” asked Sarra, her voice filling up with mock interest. “I thought this was the pride of House Chefren, the only flower clock in the empire.”

  “True, but it’s the symbolism that interests me,” said Kihl, voice dripping with pride. “I built it to show the city just how far my little empire extended, how I could import anything from anywhere. Roselettes culled from the hills north of Zagre, from the highest peaks of Rachis. Clianthus, picked at the furthest tip of the Wyrre.”

  “You told me that story the last time I visited,” said Sarra. She really didn’t have time to talk about flowers.

  “Then perhaps I should invent a new one for your next visit.”

  “You might want to do that. Everyone knows the Rachin Hills are impassable, but I suppose that is the point of the story.”

  Kihl allowed a slender smile to cross his face.

  “Picking flowers is hardly impressive,” said Sarra. “But carting the amaranth? That was an achievement.”

  “And we did it for countless generations.”

  “Until…” said Sarra, her voice turning sober.

  “Yes, until…” Kihl furrowed his brow. They both knew what the word meant. The last time Sarra visited the garden she’d seen a hundred carts of amaranth pass the clock before the cat’s ear blossomed. Today, the stables were empty.

  “Walk with me,” said Sarra bluntly, gesturing for Kihl to follow as she traveled the sandy path that circled the clock. Nearby, his palace sat hard upon a plinth of marble. White walls enclosed the estate, blocking out everything but the sky.

  “Have you come bearing amaranth?” he asked.

  “If only,” said Sarra. She made a morbid sort of laugh. “I am no longer the Mother Priestess, and your days of carting the grain are over.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes, the empire is changing. We’re all changing roles—at least, those of us who wish to stay in power.”

  “Ah, you refer to our first citizen, Mered Saad? The word ‘dictator’ has been used.”

  “Not by me,” said Sarra.

  “No. Never, but the whispers are all around us, Sarra Twice Blessed. Isn’t that what they call you?”

  “It’s whispered—like everything else,” said Sarra. She allowed just the faintest shadow of a grin to cross her lips.

  “Your priests always were good at murmuring stories in the ears of the people. ’Least you haven’t lost your touch. There are plenty of whispers in Solus. Some say the Soleri no longer live within the Empyreal Domain, that the man who worships Horu could not stand and declare himself first citizen while the gods lived within our great city.”

  “Lies. Well, mostly,” said Sarra.

  “And which part is true?”

  “The part you don’t know. Isn’t that always how it works?” Sarra grimaced just slightly. Kihl was silent, so Sarra picked up the conversation. “You know, someone once said to me that the gods hide their secrets in the open, so perhaps I should follow their lead. In truth, the Soleri are gone, fled from the domain. Mered knows this and he whispers it in every ear he can find, but it’s not much of a revelation.”

  “Really? It seems like one to me, but I’m not sure what it means. Tell me, Mouth of Tolemy, what’s this all about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because the Soleri live, and they have not forgotten their people. This is what Mered does not know. He feels their absence, but is ignorant of their impending return.” Sarra made up that last part. Kihl had looked so disheartened she felt obliged to give him a bit of good news. Any return would, inevitably, be delayed. They walked past the still-closed blossoms of the evening primrose.

  “We must, of course, prepare the empire for that return. Our Protectors have done little to protect it.”

  “You’re talking about Barca?”

  “Yes, that and more,” she said, bending to sniff the sweet flowers, wondering what exactly had become of her daughter when Mered sent her off to Barca. She’d sent men to spy on the rebel’s camp. Merit had gone into it, but that was all Sarra knew.

  “Then you speak of Suten Anu?” Kihl asked, catching her attention. “Surely Suten was mad. How else can we explain the Harkan Ray? Tolemy would never order such a thing. Did you know they’re calling this the Year of Three Rays?”

  “Hadn’t heard that one,” said Sarra. She had, of course, coined the term, and her priests had spread it around Solus, but Sarra was still thinking about her daughter. “Suten ignored our gods and was justly punished, as was his Ray. Arko is gone and Tolemy, our emperor, has chosen me to set things right. In fact, he’s tasked me with a great many deeds. One of which stands before me.”

  “We at last come to the point of this conversation,” said Kihl. “Tell me what you’ve come to offer.”

  “Protector of the Inner Guard. The post sits open, and I know of no one better suited to fill it. You know every inch of this empire, and your house guard is as sturdy as Mered’s or nearly so. You have soldiers at your side and commanders who can ably advise you.”

  “Saad lasted a month, maybe less. Why would I take up that mantle?”

  “Riches. Plunder.”

  “How so?”

  “Barca, of course. Your first task will be to put down the rebel, and it’s well known that he’s spent the past month raiding the southern half of Sola, plundering the deep desert houses, murdering our kingdom’s noble citizens and taking their riches.” She circled the flower clock, coming upon the late-blooming flora, the moonflower and five-pointed whitestar.

  “The amaranth fields lie fallow,” she continued. “There is no grain to cart. Those fortunes are at an end. I offer new ones. The man who conquers Barca takes his plunder. You know that, as does Mered. The loot he carries should more than compensate for your losses in the amaranth trade.”

  Kihl rubbed his jaw and made it look as though he were pondering her offer, but she doubted he’d given it a second’s thought. He only wanted to avoid looking eager.

  “It’s blood money,” he said,
“stolen from our own people.”

  “Gold is gold,” said Sarra. “And a handful of stolen gold weighs no less than a hard-earned one.” She approached the top of the clock, where the smoke grass wavered in the breeze, its blossoms tightly shut in the bright morning light.

  “You always were a bitch,” Kihl said.

  “And you always did what you were told because you knew it was good for you. The priesthood made you wealthy when they chose your house to cart the amaranth. Let the Ray make you wealthy twice over.”

  “You’re not really asking, are you?”

  “I never ask.”

  “Then I suppose you don’t need an answer.”

  “In that you are wrong. Accept my offer. There’s work to be done.”

  “What work? Mered claims the task.”

  “He cannot defeat Barca. He plays at politics, but war is another matter. Only the Inner Guard has the might to oppose Barca. Everyone knows this. Take up the Protector’s mantle, make your commanders into your generals, and take control of the Guard. Five thousand soldiers are billeted outside of this city. With Tolemy’s divine authority you command these men.”

  “Then it’s done.” They’d reached the place where they started, where the cat’s ear blossomed. “I’ll miss the garden.” Kihl raised his chin, his eyes set on the black tower of the Protector.

  “That’s your tower. Summon me when you’ve taken it and are ready to march on Barca,” Sarra said, and she was already motioning to take her leave, wishing him the sun’s fate as she went to the gate where her priests waited, four dozen in all. They clustered around her as she passed the iron bars.

  In the distance, hiding in the shadows of a portico, soldiers in red observed her exit. They were Mered’s men, but there was hardly any need for them to spy on Sarra. She’d named a new Protector of the Inner Guard, and by midday she’d have the news posted on every street corner in Solus.

  25

  “You’ll forgive me if I have questions—won’t you?” Merit asked the man who claimed to be Barden Hark-Wadi. She’d already encountered one purported relative. Another stood before her, so she looked at him with doubt, studying him with every bit of suspicion she could muster. He offered her an alliance that was difficult to refuse, but she needed to know more about the man. This whole empire was filled up with imposters, and she worried she’d found yet another.

  “If you are Barden,” she asked, “why didn’t you contact your brother when he was Ray?”

  “I tried. If you recall, Arko’s tenure was brief, and I spent most of it in the Wyrre. When my soldiers reached the mainland, we sent messengers to Solus, but Amen Saad’s men held the roads. My letters never reached your father.”

  “Still, he named me queen regent. I own that title, so why didn’t you send messengers to me?” asked Merit, though she already knew the answer.

  “I did, but you weren’t in Harwen. At first, I was told you were lost on the desert road. Then it turned out you were a prisoner of the sand-dwellers. When you were released, you headed straight to Rifka, and afterward you rode back to Harwen. You never stood in one place long enough for a man to find you.”

  “I’m forced to admit that I have been somewhat difficult to locate.” All of it was true. She’d spent the past few weeks traveling back and forth across the empire. “You were unable to contact the family,” she said, her voice tainted by mild irritation.

  “I sent letters to Sarra.”

  “My mother—why would you do that?”

  “She was queen once, and she raised you. I said nothing of my true identity, but I urged her to send an emissary. It’s an unusual request, but I am reasonably certain it led to your arrival at this tent. I told her enough to make her curious, to compel our Ray to send someone out to my camp, just to see what I was up to.”

  “Is that what led me here—some letter?” Merit had puzzled over the matter ever since she was stuffed into that carriage and ridden to Barden’s camp.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. She must have known I’d find a use for you even if she didn’t know my true name or purpose. As you know, I’ve been trapped up against the Harkan lines for weeks. It was never my intent to fight them. When I seized the Outer Guard at the Gate of Coronel, I wanted to head straight north to Solus. Raden had just died and his son was still stumbling about as he tried to gain control of his father’s generals. It was the right time to strike at the city, but the men had other ideas.”

  “The men? Are you not their general?”

  “There are no generals in this company. This isn’t an army, not anymore. It is a body of men drawn together by a promise. I told them we’d loot the south, that we’d plunder every house from Scargill to Solus. That pact bound them to my service.”

  “Apparently, you made good on your promise. There’s hardly a coin left in the south—complete and utter conquest.”

  “I’d hardly call it conquest.” Barca glanced at the tent floor, as if he were stricken by some uncomfortable memory. “It was more of a massacre, but it did the job. We took more loot than we could carry before we marched on Solus.”

  “Never made it, did you?”

  “The Harkans blocked our approach. Fools thought we were trooping toward Harwen. I tried to negotiate with your men, but they have no leader.”

  “No leader?”

  “Seems there’s a bit of confusion in Harwen. There’s a king, but the army won’t follow him. There’s an heir, but he’s stuck in Solus. And the queen regent … well, she’s nowhere to be found.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Heard she was in Feren.” Barden tossed down the golden sword, and it made an awful din as it struck the pile.

  “Feren … what a waste of time,” said Merit. It was her turn to glance sideways and try to forget the past. “Tell me what happened. No leader, no negotiations, straight to the sword?”

  “The Harkans struck without warning. I think they were trying to discourage an eastward march and using the point of a spear to do it.”

  Merit furrowed her brow. “That’s one way to get things done. Did you attempt to tell them the truth?”

  “The truth?” Barca asked. “Who would I tell it to? The king in Harwen? Even the army won’t follow that fool.”

  “So?” Merit asked.

  “I retreated. I did not want to spill Harkan blood, not if I could help it.”

  “And you’ve been stuck here since?”

  Barden didn’t bother to answer her question. His soldiers’ tents might be golden, but the men were covered in dust and sand, and all of them had the look of hunger about them. They had their plunder. They’d grown rich in the south, but a few weeks in the desert had obviously left his army short on supplies, low on morale too. A good time to begin our negotiation, thought Merit, but Barden caught her off guard with his next remark.

  “Let me take you to see my men,” he said.

  “Your men?” asked Merit, confused, but only briefly.

  “Can you ride?” he asked.

  “Better than most.”

  “Show me.”

  A soldier in bronze mail brought horses. The mounts were lightly weighted, so she guessed it would be a short ride. The man tried to help Merit up onto the saddle, but she swatted him away with a wave of her hand. She was mounted before Barca had a chance to put his foot in the stirrup. “Where are we off to?” she asked.

  “To see my armies,” he said, his voice low, as if he were concealing what he said from the soldier.

  “I thought…” she said, but Merit caught herself. He was holding something back, that much was clear.

  A short ride led to a narrow defile. It was late in the day and the slender walls of the gorge blocked the sun’s last rays. There were no lamps here, so she was forced to slow her horse’s pace, but the fissure soon opened, revealing what she guessed was a great caldera. Soldier upon soldier packed the crater. Campfires lit the sky and the air was punctuated by laughter and the occasional hoot of some drunkard. Well-fed, drunken men, thought Me
rit. What is this?

  “Ride with me a bit further,” Barden said, leading her up to a slender promontory, where he leapt from his horse and offered her his hand. She took it this time, clearly impressed.

  “You’ve hidden your army,” said Merit. “All those sicklings, the piles of butchered bones, that stench—”

  “It’s a deception, a ruse. We have men and provisions, though I dare not speak of them. I sleep with the dying while my army feasts on what we plundered from the wealthy of Sola. You have no idea what riches the wellborn hide within the great houses.”

  “But,” she asked, “who were those men, back in the camp?”

  “Conscripts, mostly from the Wyrre, men who joined our raiding parties or were press-ganged into service. Think of them as camp followers. They seldom leave that ring of shields, and there are other fissures in this crater. My men never pass through that camp. Every day the Harkans send scouts, but all they see are the dying, the severed limbs, and troughs overflowing with waste. We’ve kept our numbers hidden from the Protector as well as the soldiers in red.”

  “Mered.”

  “Yes, Mered. His scouts are everywhere.”

  “You’ve concealed your numbers.”

  “I gave it my best try. This is not simply the remnants of the Outer Guard, though they do form a small piece of my force. We drew volunteers in the Wyrre. Most were sell swords or freebooters, but we also took on fighting men from the royal houses we conquered. We offered them all the same bargain: Join us and you’ll be wealthy. We aim to loot Solus, to sack the city of the gods. There’ll be plunder aplenty. The Grim Companions are here. You’ve no doubt heard tales about them. Freebooters, eight hundred in all, and they are not the only company to hear my call. The Blue Spears have come and so have the Storm Men. There are the outlander clans. I spent half my life living among them. They know and respect me. I’ve built alliances. The Hykso camp with my army, each one as fierce as any soldier in the Alehkar. These are hungry men. I’ve promised them much and I intend to deliver more, but their patience is at an end—I’m out of time. We need to march, but I’d rather not fight a war with Harkana.” Barca drew his blade. “Can you end my standoff with the Harkan Army? Are you with me?” he asked.