The Gahn-Markesh was a long, wide road with hotels, stores, bright flowering gardens and myriad stairs. The three sisters of Avānweh stabbed at the heavens to the north. The Lakes of the Sky undulated into a blue-grey haze to the east and west, with the tall peaks of the Mar Ejir stretching away from the nearby southern shore. A thicket of ship masts swayed in the warm wind, surrounded by wheeling kestrels and gulls. A small number of wind-galleys, skiffs, and yachts drifted overhead, the toys of the wealthy, searching for a place to put down. Mari watched a wind-galley that had seen better days come to rest in the water. A powerful explosion of steam erupted as water bubbled around the madly rotating Tempest Wheels and the spinning dumbbell of the Disentropy Spool. The water churned for several moments before it eventually settled into a simmer, then a gentle series of ripples that lapped at the weather-beaten hull.
From time to time Mari would pause and look back, sometimes see Nadir searching for her and other times not. She threaded through the ambling crowd. Breathed deeply of spices, weathered timber and sun-warmed water. At the eastern end of the waterside market was a bridge to the Shoals—a series of small islands, little more than sandbars—only fifty metres off shore. Indris’s wind-galley, the Wanderer, was out there amidst dozens of other vessels.
And there Nadir was, standing between Mari and her goal, in the shade of a fruit vendor’s awning, eating raisins he had cupped in his hand. Mari froze at the sight of him, and Nadir smiled and gestured for Mari to eat from his palm. Mari looked Nadir up and down, her chin raised, almost smiling despite herself at the calm assurance of his pose.
“I think the days of me eating anything of yours are long over, Nadir.” Mari was surprised at the evenness of her tone, though not at Nadir’s relaxed chuckle.
“Was a time you’d never say no, Mari,” Nadir said. His voice had sounded so deep when her head had rested on his chest. She turned, the flush of her cheeks unwelcome. She struggled to find equilibrium. It had been so long, but still his voice sent tingles down her spine.
“Was a time I’d do a lot of things. Sometimes I still do, just not with you. What do you want, Nadir? Why are you here, and why, by Erebus’s long cold shadow, did you follow me?”
“Nostalgia?” He stepped forward, rattling the raisins in his hands. Nadir popped one into his mouth, chewing with obvious delight at the taste. “Desire? Regret? Can I have more than one reason? Maybe it’s because seeing you brought back memories I thought I’d wanted to forget, only to find I was so very wrong. You sure you don’t want a raisin? They’re very sweet, juicy, and quite… delicious.”
A barrage of old emotion welled up in her. She wanted to hug him. Punch him. Kiss him. Kill him. A very rational anger based on old wounds rose like bile. She clenched her fists until the knuckles made a loud cracking sound.
Nadir smiled his familiar smile. Broad. Cheerful. Fangs in the open. Up close his scars gave him a rakish allure. “In all the Ancestors’ names, I’ve missed you. It’s been far too long, Mari.”
“You disappeared without a word!”
“And I’m sorrier for that than you know.”
“No need, I got over you soon enough.” Mari gave a look of mock contrition at Nadir’s equally false look of hurt. She frowned when he smiled, kicking herself for falling into old habits with him. “It wasn’t that you left, Nadir. I could handle that you left. But I’d no idea what happened to you!” Other than the rumours of your Family being exiled for treason, which is a story in itself. And now you’re back, and your father is back, and your father and my father being together can not end well for many people.
“If you’ve questions of me, then ask.” He emptied his hand of the raisins, then held it out as if to take hers. “Had I the choice, you would’ve been the last person on Īa I would’ve left. Please, can’t we talk? What harm is there in you hearing me out?”
“No harm, other than the time out of my life I won’t get back.”
“If you ask, I will tell, and I promise it’ll be a tale for the ages.”
“Really?” Mari glared at the man from beneath her ragged fringe, suddenly irritated by the way errant strands of hair caught in the corners of her eyes, or the harsh glare of the sun through blonde strands. She warred with her need to express a long-held righteous indignation and moral high ground at being the one left behind, with her need for answers. After several long moments where Nadir’s grin withered under her gaze, curiosity won.
“Fine. So long as it’s in public.” Mari stared at Nadir’s hand, still bridging the gap between them. “And not today. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Leave a message for me at Nanjidasé and make sure you’ll be where you say you’ll be this time.”
Nadir bowed his jaunty bow and smiled a gentle smile, the one he knew she had always found hard to resist. Thankfully time had robbed her of that sentiment at least. She looked down at the raisins being trampled under the feet of passersby, becoming little more than dark spots of ruin on the hot street.
She chewed her lip, and breathed against the niggling pain in her ribs from last night’s adventure. An assassination attempt. Now the return of the Exiles to bolster her father’s power, and a lover from the past dropping back into her life, just at the time Rosha was trying to marry Indris off. Balls, she thought. Mari eyed a nearby vendor selling alcohol: horns of Angoth honey mead, jugs of the fiery moonshine made by the Jihari tribes, jars of the dark beer from Narsis Prefecture she had acquired a taste for, plus Seethe wines and all manner of exotic, mind-numbing indulgences from across the Marble Sea.
Mari bought a couple of jars of beer, then some loaves of hot bread and some dips and roasted meets from vendors along the markesh. Nadir had soured Mari’s hunger for wanting to see Indris, but not for the safety of company. Tonight she would make sure she had friends with her at Nanjidasé, do some thinking, then do some drinking. Then tomorrow, Indris.
Whatever her father might be planning with the Exiles, she doubted she would want to face the idea of it sober. Then once she sobered up, there were assassins she needed to find… and end.
“IT IS NOT ENOUGH TO REVEL IN THE MISFORTUNE OF MY ENEMIES. THEY MUST KNOW, BEFORE THE END, IT WAS I WHO WAS THEIR UNDOING.”
—From The Intransigent Winter of Monarchy, by King Voethe of Angoth, thirteenth year of his reign (493rd Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
DAY 348 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
The din from the race below rattled around Corajidin’s private balcony at the Iphyrone. Incense burners scented the rooms with vanilla and orchid. Tinted glass lamps in the shape of horse heads lined the walls, lit by ilhen crystals. The air was bone dry with the aftertaste of sand. Sunlight streamed in solid, hard-edged beams across the black marble floor. Dust motes flared, floating sparks of amber drifting in the warmth. Long silk curtains, embroidered with the black rearing stallion of the Erebus, rippled languidly in the breeze.
Corajidin took in the clouds of dust streaming from the hooves of the lead racers as they sped by. Each rider was armoured, their large mountain hart likewise. The lead rider raised her bow. Took an arrow from the quiver at her knee. Drew and aimed. Fired at the gallop. Bullseye! The crowd roared, muffling the thunder of hooves. Corajidin gazed out over the unrestrained mass below, like blended knots of colour in a rug. Tiny beads for eyes. Black dot mouths. Each person a tiny part of a great ravenous beast that needed to be kept controlled and pliant.
Beside him his heir Kasraman raised an eyebrow at the particularly fine shot. Kasraman’s ice-blue eyes seemed to shine against his olive complexion, his dark hair casting shadows over his brow. He was a solemn, elegant figure. So much like his late mother. Even Kasraman’s frightening talent for witchcraft was a gift from Corajidin’s first wife.
Corajidin looked over Kasraman’s shoulder to where the most wealthy and influential of the returned Exiles enjoyed Erebus hospitality. Rahn-Narseh, the gaunt, iron-haired Knight-Marshall of Shrīan was also there, talking in short, sharp sentences as was her wont. H
er grey and green coat and trousers were fine, though plain, with a military cut. Her son, Anankil, loomed nearby, a male version of his mother. The other sayfs already loyal to the Great House of Erebus were scattered in rooms and balconies below. He would speak with them shortly. These Exiles were the ones he needed to convince.
“Is the treacherous mongrel here?” Corajidin’s gentle tone belied the way his fingers squeezed the wine bowl in his hand. Like it was somebody’s throat.
“He is.” Kasraman’s smile was wintry. “Do you want him brought in?”
“Yes. It will be instructive.”
Kasraman gestured to one of the Anlūki poised by the door. The woman bowed then left the room, returning shortly with two of her armoured brethren. The Anlūki had their hands on the hilts of their long shamshirs as they herded a jowly, richly dressed nervous-looking man into the room. The Exiles shared curious glances, conversations dwindling.
There came the dry creak of callipers. The limping tread. The clack of a wooden stave against stone. Corajidin stared at Wolfram as he entered the room. Wolfram’s expression was closed behind the ragged tangles of his beard, beneath the brindle spears of his fringe. One large-knuckled hand was wrapped around his oft-mended staff, its length held together with rusted coffin nails, bands of metal and straps of knotted leather.
The traitor blanched. He whimpered and struggled. Sweat speckled his brow, eyes widened in fear.
“Corajidin? What is this?” Jhem of the Delfineh, apparently the leader of the Exiles, said. His voice was deep and sibilant, almost lisping. The years had added more grey to the man’s receding black hair, yet his hooded eyes in their deep, seamed orbits were still cold and hard as polished stones.
“A demonstration.” Corajidin maintained a set expression. He looked to the captive, resisting the urge to strike him.
“Demonstration?” Tahj-Shaheh asked. The Marble Sea corsair was taller than her father had been, slender yet womanly in her faded suede jerkin and wide-legged trousers. The only child of the late Hatoub had inherited her father’s good looks. Years of piracy had darkened her skin and sun-bleached her hair. “What kind of demonstration?”
“I did as you asked,” the man said, voice quavering. His complexion gone chalky under his tan. “I made sure—”
“This is Maroc of the Family Zam’Haja,” Corajidin pointed at the man. “They have been the traditional wardens of the Zam’Haja district, on the northern borders of Erebus Prefecture—”
“Merciful rahn—” Maroc’s words ended abruptly as Wolfram struck him in the face with his staff. The jagged flanges of coffin nails tore Maroc’s lips. Blood flowed down his chin. The quivering man mewled in pain.
Corajidin nodded his thanks at Wolfram, who leaned on his staff and fixed Maroc with an unblinking stare.
“Despite my generosity, Maroc decided he would ally himself with the Federationists.” Corajidin stood before the crumpled man. He could feel his temper rise; try as he might to maintain calm. Pain took seed between his eyes. His chest twinged. “I paid good money for Maroc, yet when it came time for him to deliver on his promises, he forgot who owned him. I am glad you are here to observe in how low esteem I hold those who betray my patronage. Wolfram?”
“Corajidin?” Jhem, the Blacksnake, glided forward on silent feet. “May I? I’ve no doubt your man here can terrify, but perhaps I’ve a way that may be more demonstrative to your audience.”
Corajidin shrugged his assent. He was interested in seeing what years of Exile had done to Jhem, whose reputation was already so dark.
“My daughter, Kimiya, taught me this,” Jhem’s tone was light as he stared into Maroc’s eyes. “While I’ll never be a witch, there are some things I can do.”
The Blacksnake stared into Maroc’s eyes. The prisoner struggled in the hands of his captors, yet after a few moments began to quiet. Eventually he was still, his eyes half closed, expression slack. Jhem moved his head closer, nostrils flared, as he stared intently at Maroc. Seemingly satisfied he moved back.
“Is it true you betrayed your master?” Jhem asked in a soothing voice.
“Yes,” Maroc whispered.
“Why?”
“Because he had gone too far in murdering Vashne and Ariskander. Too far. Empire, too far…”
Jhem drew a curved knife from the sleeve of his embroidered silk coat. Its silver blade was filigreed with bronze, the hilt of polished bone. He handed the blade to Maroc, curling the man’s fingers around it.
“I want you to cut out one of your hearts and give it to Rahn-Corajidin.”
Corajidin’s breath caught in surprise. He spared a glance for Kasraman who looked back with distaste.
Maroc paused, hands trembling. Something lurked in his eyes. Some sense of self-preservation, of fear, and terrible knowing. Even so, the prisoner slid his coat off, then sliced the laces of his silk tunic. He opened the tunic to expose his fleshy torso. The knife quavered. Sweat trickled down Maroc’s temples.
All the while Jhem stared deep at Maroc with his lifeless gaze.
Ever so slowly the knife curved down. Pressed against loose, hairy skin. A drop of blood welled. It became a trickle, then a stream as the knife bit deep. With a jerk of his hand, Maroc drew the knife up through muscle. He twitched, tears streaming from his eyes. He sawed the blade for a few moments as blood poured from the wound. The knife dropped with a clatter. The man began to shriek, skin ashen, as he rummaged inside his own chest for his left heart.
Before he could draw it out Maroc spasmed. Blood gushed from his mouth and he collapsed. Even as he writhed on the ground, his life ebbing away, the man tried to remove the muscle. He died with his hand still in his own chest.
“And now the Zam’Haja district needs a new warden,” Jhem said blithely. He looked down at the body, head cocked to one side. “Pity he did not have the strength to finish. It would have been a more compelling demonstration if he had, do you not think?”
The Exiles looked away, hands nervously touching the hilts of their weapons. Jhem seemed oblivious to them. He looked up at Corajidin and smiled his dead smile. It made Corajidin’s blood chill, even though he had been prepared for something atrocious. Jhem reminded him of the cold-hearted bastard, Rayz of the Maladhi, from the days when he had been Corajidin’s Master of Assassins, prior to the late Thufan. The son, Nix—born of incest to an insane, cannibal father and the man’s own daughter—was even worse. Smarter, meaner and madder than his parents, Nix had been Exiled along with his father during one of Asrahn-Vashne’s purges.
Kasraman stepped forward, his hands held wide in a peaceful gesture. An easy smile lit his features. He gestured for the servants, their own faces tinged with nausea yet eyes rigidly downcast, to refill wine bowls. Bound-caste servants moved silently, replenishing drinking bowls from ewers of water and wine. Trays of fresh grilled fish with lemon, buttered wild rice, mint yoghurt, and crisp salad were laid out on tables. Musicians in tanned leather horse masks played sonesette and theorbo, timpani and the long bamboo flute of the Mar Ejir with its low, resonant sound.
“No doubt you’ve heard how some of my father’s sayfs didn’t support him as well as they otherwise might. We didn’t want you thinking the Great House of Erebus took betrayal lightly.” Kasraman gave Jhem a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“And we are thus instructed,” the Blacksnake responded in an emotionless voice. “Which begs the question. Rahn-Corajidin, was it you who killed the arbiters yesterday?” he asked pointedly. The other Exiles paused, seemingly eager for the answer. Arbiters were supposedly sacrosanct, killing them bringing terrible retribution from their peers, as well as the kherife who worked with them to uphold the law.
Corajidin pondered whether he should take ownership of the deed, when the truth was he had no idea who had committed it. Some had said the explosion was Alchemists’ Fire, released by Human terrorists who had died in the attack. Several arbiters also perished, including Arbiter-Colonel Pashur, the man who had been crusading to e
nsure Corajidin was cleared of his crimes. Enough silver nobles to loosen tongues had bought a different story: the explosion was caused by a fire elemental, which had been summoned and released. When the Sēq had not responded to the destructive force of the elemental, visiting witches had bound and banished the creature. Unsurprisingly the witches had tried to keep their involvement quiet. Humans from Manté had been blamed, their use of dark witchcraft the source of horror tales for centuries. Such accusations, founded in truth or not, helped Corajidin’s cause against the Humans to no end.
Before Corajidin could answer Jhem’s question, though, there was a disturbance. From the corner of his eye Corajidin saw the flute-playing musician—a wiry man with long greasy hair shaped into lank spines—step forward. One of the Anlūki moved in the musician’s direction, hand on the hilt of their shamshir. The flute hummed through the air in a vicious stroke. It cracked across the back of the Anlūki’s hand, splitting skin and breaking bone with a snap. As others descended on him, the man adopted a ludicrous, capering stance, the long bamboo flute waving before him like a sword.
“You’ve me to thank for yesterday.” The flautist’s voice was slightly nasal and low pitched. He swept his horse mask off with a flourish. Nix’s grin was wild, his eyes shadowed in a pallid complexion. His greasy hair was swept back from a high, shiny forehead. He worked his mouth like he was chewing on something that tasted poorly, and when he spoke his fingers flicked as if he were speaking with them, too. “A gesture on my father’s behalf, and out of his profound respect for an old friendship. Consider this our way of saying old ties are hard to break, Rahn-Corajidin.”
The Obsidian Heart Page 5