Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “I am. I can name every commander in Harkana and their wives too. I know how many striplings stumble about their homes. I can hand you a Harkan peace treaty,” she boasted, “but there may be a catch.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t know if that traitor in Harwen has made changes to the army, murdered generals and the like. I can only command the army of my father. If it’s intact, I’ll have this skirmish sewn up in short order.”

  “You will. If the boy king controlled that army, he’d have them in Harwen.”

  “Good, then the task will be simple. I will ally your army with Harkana’s and we’ll march with you to Solus. I’ll be there when the Shroud Wall falls, but there is something that must be done first.”

  “What business trumps this one?”

  “Harwen. We take back what is ours.”

  “Harwen? You waste time. Solus is the prize.”

  “I’m not negotiating.”

  “If I march on your city, I’ll reveal my numbers.”

  “Then I’ll ride with the Harkan Army,” said Merit. “There is only a garrison in the city. They won’t have a chance against the full force of our legions.”

  “Then go, make our treaty. Take your army and your kingdom,” said Barca, an ill look passing across his face. “Do what you must, but know this: I’ve made a pact with these men.” He hardened his jaw. “I offered them plunder. I promised it to the sell swords and the outlanders too. These are pacts drawn in blood, and they’ll end in it too if I’m not cautious. If we don’t march on Solus, then we’ll need to go somewhere else. Understand me?” Barden shot her a furious glare. “Harwen is the last city I wish to raid, but it’s close and there’s wealth in it. Listen closely.” He swallowed twice before finishing. “I cannot control these men, not fully. They’re held together by the desire to plunder without recourse. I’ve offered them Sola and you’ve committed to that course. If you’re unable to make a pact with your generals, my army will put the Harkans to the sword and we’ll lose half our men doing it. The mercenaries will find better work, the outlanders will flee, and we won’t have enough men to challenge Sola, but we’ll still have enough swords to best our black-leathered brethren. When that happens, there will be no soldiers left to protect your precious home—our home.”

  Barden steepled his fingers and met her gaze.

  “This army will sack Harwen, and there’ll be nothing either of us can do to stop it,” he said, his fingers unwinding, one hand gesturing toward the flap. “Go, and don’t even think about failing.”

  26

  A red torch arced through the purple sky, glowing faintly as it plummeted through the mist. It struck the long and spindly bridge with an almost silent thud, a second torch following close behind it, then a third. The flames shot out across the trestles, enveloping the ancient wood.

  “That’s the last one,” said Kepi. “We’ve burned every bridge, north to south, up and down the rift. We’re cut off from the empire.”

  “It was Dagrun’s last wish,” said Deccan Falkirk. He’d ridden with her to the rift. Ferris Mawr was there as well. They were warlords of Feren, and they had both stood with Kepi in the Chathair. Deccan was older than Ferris by several decades. He was a sheepish man despite his height, and she could not help but notice that he was constantly fiddling with his beard and mustache, trimming and grooming the thing. She found him vain, but loyal. He’d stood in the ring when the commoners turned against Dagrun, and he had the scars to show for it. Ferris had more than his share of blemishes, but he was by far the youngest of the warlords. If she had to guess at his age, she would venture to say that he was not a year older than ten and seven, but he bore the scars of a man of twice his age and the maturity of a boy who was half it. The young warlord had a striking face, blue eyes, perpetually unkempt red hair, and a chin that always seemed to have a day’s worth of scruff poking from it.

  “It’s done,” said Kepi. “The bridges are burned. It was Dagrun’s last command. It was almost the last thing he said to me, so I made it my first task as queen.” She kicked at the ashes left by the torch. “These flames are the start of a new Feren.”

  “Or the end of it,” said Ferris.

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, I don’t argue with the act,” said Ferris, “but I am compelled by my great and virtuous sense of honesty”—he offered Kepi a wry grin—“to point out the consequences of your actions. You’ve cut off all trade with the empire, and put a stop to the tributes. These things are owed to Tolemy. This’s a provocation, my lovely queen.” Ferris grinned again and flashed his blue eyes, but she wasn’t certain if he was flirting with her or testing her nerve. She found it impossible to gauge the man.

  “Tolemy will not allow Feren to leave the empire—especially when we’re the ones feeding half of Solus,” said Deccan. He spoke in a high voice, acting as if he were somehow correcting Ferris.

  “I know as much,” said Kepi, a bit taken aback. She wasn’t certain if it was appropriate for these men to address her in such a casual manner, to second-guess her decisions, or to tell her how to manage the kingdom. She’d seen her father strike a Harkan warlord for speaking as such, and he’d used the sharp edge of a sword to do it.

  “Feren needs its crops,” said Kepi. “I have plans. I won’t say them, not yet. I’ve got more than one provocation in mind, so if you don’t like this one you might as well put down your sword and let some other man pick it up.” The funeral made Kepi wary of the Ferens and their customs. She intended to put an end to more than one tradition, but she knew enough about the politics of kingdom to keep her plans to herself.

  Still, Deccan wrinkled his nose. He was careful where Ferris was headstrong, wary where his counterpart was brash. “I am loath to admit it, but this bridge burning is an act of war. When his grain does not arrive in Solus, Tolemy will send soldiers to retrieve it.”

  “And I’ll be the one to fight ’em,” said Ferris. “My men hold the rift,” he said, plainly. It was no boast.

  “You just happen to have the southernmost caer,” said Deccan.

  “And you happen to live in the north, in the tranquility of the forest, with nothing but the mountain lords at your back. We all know those poets and scholars are never going to pull their quills out of their asses and come marching down those hills.”

  Deccan flashed a grimace. “We do our part. While you quarrel with the locals, we raise the crops that feed your men—forget about that?”

  “Never. Every time I bite into a week-old turnip I think of Deccan.”

  “Enough,” said Kepi. This was her decision, her command. And these men could fret over it on their own time. She turned and showed them her back, ending the conversation. She’d wanted to see the flames gutter out, but the last of the fires had vanished. Darkness followed, but it was not complete. Faint lights appeared in the forest.

  Ferris gave a whistle and several of his men jumped to their feet; more approached from the north.

  “What’s that?” Kepi asked, eyes suddenly wide.

  “Torches,” said Ferris. “Looks like someone’s come to watch the bonfire, or maybe they’ve been watching all along—eh?”

  “Perhaps,” said Deccan, “but who are they? Harkans? I think not.”

  A man in dark desert robes broke through the tree line. He wore no armor, and he held only a scroll.

  “I could take him down with an arrow,” whispered Ferris.

  “And what would be the point in that?” Kepi asked. “He’s a messenger.”

  “We’ve burned the bridges,” said Ferris. “So why wait around to hear what this man has to say? We’re already at war.”

  “Point taken,” said Kepi, yet she was curious. Who had come to the rift, and why had he appeared at this very moment—when the queen herself was here and had burned the last of the bridges?

  A faint crack rippled through the air as the man broke the wax and carefully unrolled the scroll. A second figure appeared at the back of the f
irst, a torch held high above both of their heads. The firelight revealed the color of their robes, which was pale red—something like madder or the red clay of the Feren earth. Kepi eyed the parchment. Perhaps I ought to be the one to read it first. The thought had barely entered her head when she saw the kite circle then dive. Its movements were as quick as her thoughts. Even as the notion formed in her head, the great bird stole away the parchment. The man in red had no opportunity to move or react in any way. The parchment was simply gone from his hand, leaving his fingers held aloft, a look of bewilderment on his face.

  The scroll fell into Kepi’s hand. Ferris chuckled a bit, impressed, perhaps, or maybe he just enjoyed the look of agitation on the other man’s face. The manners of the red-robed man betrayed him as a servant of Solus: pompous, arrogant, annoyed at having the parchment ripped from his fingers.

  Kepi made short work of the message, reading it quickly, then tossing it to the earth.

  “Well?” asked Ferris. “Is it a love letter from Tolemy? If not, you might as well share it.”

  “The scroll was inked by Mered Saad, a man who calls himself the First Among Equals. He’s concerned about the food shortages in Solus. Says we ought to triple our annual tributes. He wants food and tribute, everything an empire needs to function, and he wants Feren to provide it.”

  “Somehow, I doubt you’ll comply,” said Ferris. “Shall I go ahead and put an arrow through the messenger’s head? Maybe his friend can drag him back to Solus. That plump body ought to feed a dozen pigs.”

  “Can you quiet yourself—for just a moment?” asked Deccan, his voice raised. “I know this man, Mered, and he maintains a great army.” Deccan lifted the parchment and read it. “He asks Feren to increase the already-agreed-upon tributes threefold.”

  “By what authority?” asked Kepi.

  “None but his own and his army’s,” said Deccan. “Though this scroll does bear the signature of three others, heads of great families. He is not alone in his endeavor, and each of these families maintains an army. Together they could muster a sizeable force.”

  “Let them try to cross the rift,” said Ferris.

  “I fear they will,” Deccan replied, “but not yet. They’ve given us time to ready the first shipment. It says here that Mered intends to ratify this new agreement in person. He asks the queen to meet him at the rift. Three days’ time.”

  How does he even know I am queen? She’d held the crown for barely a week, and the ride from Rifka to Solus was almost that long. Had news of Dagrun’s death traveled that quickly? She’d heard of Mered; she knew his surname well enough. Raden Saad was the man her grandfather fought, the old Protector, and his son was the Protector after him. Kepi had hoped to leave the empire behind, to avoid the wars that were brewing in the south, to keep the forest’s riches here, at home, but that hope seemed foolish now.

  She looked out across the rift, but the two men were already gone. They must have seen her read the scroll and known their work was done.

  They had not come to talk. This was no negotiation.

  If they did not give Mered what he asked, he’d take it.

  27

  In the lamp’s flickering light, they traced the marks left by Ott’s crutch. It was not an altogether difficult task, but Ren had already lost the trail twice, the marks having grown lighter as Ott made his journey out and away from the black, soot-stained ramps of the temple.

  “There’s another one,” said Kollen. He was rubbing his eyes and squinting at the thing, trying to discern if it was a smudge or just one more bit of dirt in an already dirty place.

  “You’ve got better eyes than me,” said Ren. They’d gone a good distance, but each corridor looked like the last one, and none of them led to the surface.

  “No,” said Kollen. “My eyes aren’t any better. I just don’t have my nose stuck to the earth. Stand up, man. This’ll go quicker. And another thing, this trail, it seems rather easy to follow—don’t you think?” Kollen arched an eyebrow. “Are we certain this isn’t some sort of ploy, a trap of some kind? Can we trust your brother? I mean, how do we know he’s the genuine article? He could be anyone. Might be Mithra’s mad child, or Mered’s for that matter. And even if he is Arko’s son, he’s also the Ray’s son. Ever think about that? Maybe he saved us from Mered so he could hand us over to his loving mother. Perhaps we’re some sort of gift.”

  “No,” said Ren flatly. He projected certainty when in truth he had considered the possibility. It was all he’d thought about. Ren had no way to confirm whether Ott was indeed his brother. He had only a feeling, a hunch. Something deep within him told Ren that Ott shared his blood. He had the eyes of Arko, but that might just be wishful thinking on Ren’s part. He hoped he wasn’t letting his emotions overpower his reason.

  “I don’t know,” Ren admitted. “I’ve a hunch, nothing more.”

  “Oh, and those hunches of yours … they’ve worked out so splendidly in the past.”

  “They kept us alive,” Ren said. “I reckon that’s more than you’ve done. I’m trying to find a way out of this place. You seem bent on nothing more than annoying me.”

  The sound of boot steps thudded in the corridor. Ren reached for his blade, but Kollen placed a cautioning hand on Ren’s shoulder. Edric appeared with a dozen black shields at his back, filling up the narrow stone space. None wore armor, but they carried swords hidden beneath linen robes.

  “I don’t recall inviting you,” said Ren, his eyes meeting Edric’s. “These passages are watched by the city guard, and at some point we’re going to run into them. We might pass for beggars, but your lot is another story.”

  “I asked the boys in black to chase after us,” said Kollen. “Figured we might need a little help. You know, if things go astray. I’ve said what I think of Ott. For all I know, this trail leads straight to the Hall of Ministers, or maybe we’ll come upon the Ray’s privy.”

  “You’ve made your opinions abundantly clear, and I’ve tried to make it equally obvious that I don’t care what you think, so—”

  “Sorry,” Edric interjected. “If we end up butting heads with the city guard, you’ll be happy we joined you. Trust me. You spot someone you don’t like and we’ll knock them over the head—deal?”

  “No deal. Just keep quiet and follow along,” said Ren. He didn’t feel the need to make any kind of agreement. He was in charge. Gneuss had said it and Edric heard the command. Ren turned without saying another word, and the captain did not challenge him. He served under Ren’s command; Kollen was another story. The boy served only his ego. Undeterred, he continued his rebuke of Ott. “I don’t think there’s a single soldier in this passage. We haven’t seen one. That brother of yours was just trying to scare us. That’s what I think. Maybe he doesn’t want us following him around, catching him while he nibbles away at cheese while we bite at our fingernails for nourishment.”

  “Now you’re just imagining things.”

  “No, I’m not. He said there were soldiers, that if we followed him we’d be discovered. But we haven’t found a single one. He’s a liar. Plain and simple.”

  “Maybe they’re just up ahead,” said Ren, the irritation mounting in his voice. “Or they’ve spied us and run off to grab the rest of their men.”

  “And maybe they’re just in your fucking imagination.” Kollen stepped ahead of the others, moving into the larger chamber that was just up ahead of them.

  “Quiet,” Edric ordered in the stentorian tones the captain so ably pronounced. Ren took note. He’d need to learn how to bark an order if he wanted to command these men or to silence Kollen.

  They’d lost Ott’s trail, but they’d found something else. Up ahead there were oil lamps, and they illuminated a dark space. It was large but cluttered with pillars. The place was of indeterminate size. He saw no bounds, no limits, no walls. There was nothing but oil lamps, hung here and there from the columns, their pale lights drifting off toward infinity. They followed the lamps, moving through the darkness
, a distant light appearing on the horizon. Somewhere far off, he glimpsed a dozen or so shelters, glowing faintly in the black. As he moved closer to them, he saw there was in fact a great number of structures, all of them stacked into some kind of pyramid. It reached upward until it was truncated abruptly by the ceiling of the chamber.

  “Are those tents?” Kollen asked. “Are the fools waiting for it to rain?”

  “No. It’s a market,” said Ren. “Those are stalls, not tents. Weeks ago, when I first entered the underground, we passed through a similar place. The priors called it the Night Market; this must be part of it.”

  Edric pushed ahead of Ren. “Well, looks like we’ve found a way to fill our stomachs. Only problem is this: we’ve got no coin.” He gripped the hilt of his sword. “Things could get messy if they’ve got guards.” The captain looked to Ren. “You might want to wait this one out.”

  Ren cast a doubtful look on Edric. “You said something about staying quiet and knocking heads when I asked?” said Ren, cocking his head and waiting to be acknowledged.

  “I’ll do as you wish. I only thought it should be said,” Edric grumbled, his fingers drumming on the pommel of the sword he kept beneath his robe.

  Eyes wary, they moved slowly, cautiously. Their stomachs grumbled and they were sleep-deprived and thirsty, too, but Ren dared not hurry. He did not want to draw attention to their little group, so he forced himself to walk at a measured pace, taking in the scene. Everything was bathed in the oily residue of the lamps. It covered their sandals, making their toes black. It even gave the stalls a waxen sheen. This market was old—ancient, possibly. The flames must have burned for centuries to accumulate such a large quantity of residue.

  “If you’ll allow me to offer a bit of advice,” said Edric. “I think we ought to circle the market. Let’s see what’s for sale and who has all the swords. It might be best to target a few of the less well-defended tents.”