The Rose Sea

by S. M. Stirling

  "Yes," Amourgin said. "Thank you."

  "What blessing would thou ask? I could make thy member as long as thy arm, so that all women would adore thee."

  "They adore me already," Amourgin snapped. He stood there, considering Heinous's offer. He couldn't help wondering if the men of Eowlie's land were better-endowed than he was. He hated the idea that they might be.

  "NO!" yelled the spirit. "You want the key to the Theophone."

  "I do?" Amourgin asked "I liked his idea rather a lot, actually."

  "Whose idea?" Heinous asked.

  "The key, imbecile. Trust me here."

  "Right" Amourgin gave up, for the time being, the idea of being as well-hung as a Grenlaarin stallion. "I'd rather have the key to the Theophone, if that wouldn't be too much trouble," he told Heinous.

  The god didn't speak for a moment. When he did, he sounded petulant. "I could make thy lust as great as mountains, puny human. I could make thee a legend among women. And thy request is for a key—"

  "If you don't mind." Amourgin was having a hard time giving up the idea of becoming a legend among women. He didn't do too badly, he thought, but a bit of help never hurt, either.

  The god sighed again. "How will I get more worshipers if thou hast not the lust of a thousand men?" he moaned. A moment later, he said, "Ah, very well. The key to the Theophone. Call me sometimes."

  A metal rod half the length of Amourgin's hand appeared in the air in front of him. He took it and studied it. One half of it was covered with jewels—the other half was plain, with notches running down one side.

  "Don't waste time!" the spirit snarled. "Put it in your pouch and let's go."

  The spirit turned and fled, and Amourgin, made nervous by the unseemly haste, dropped the key into his pouch and raced after him.

  The way back was not as long as the way in. Amourgin considered that for a moment, then realized Heinous, no longer being one of the Forgotten Gods, must have instantly moved into the ranks of the Extremely Obscure Gods—which were nearer the front door.

  The crotchety spirit accompanied him as far as the door of the temple, then vanished.

  Amourgin, suddenly weary beyond measure, stretched out under the temple's eaves, and fell into deep sleep.

  Karah woke to the warmth of sunlight on her face, the sound of waves gently lapping nearby… and a strange soft rustling. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she looked up at the sky and rubbed them again.

  In the air above the temple hill, a mass of contrivances she could not recognize flew—she squinted, trying to make sense of what her eyes saw. The first few dipped nearer, and made as if to land in front of the ancient temple. She saw what they were, then, and shuddered. They were carts—ancient, decrepit carts, drawn by skeletal horses, driven by skeletal men. Never built to fly, they nonetheless soared and dipped in the air above the temple, and when the troops scattered to make room for them, they landed.

  The minions of Kevo-Death had returned.

  Karah found herself next to Bren. "What are we going to do?" she whispered.

  Her captain frowned and swallowed hard. Karah could see his adam's apple bob up and down. He looked around the temple hill, cut off on all sides by the lapping sea, then out at the distant, tiny islands that would become islands again and again while the Three rode the heavens together. He said, "We could be here for days—we could drown trying to get to another bit of high ground—and from the looks of things, the gods don't like our chances. So we're going to load orderly, ride quiet, and get off where the… drivers…" He stumbled over that last word, and looked at the carts with a haunted expression. "Where the drivers put us off."

  "I don't like it," Karah said.

  "You don't have to like it. You just have to do it."

  The dead beckoned with their bony fingers and grinned their fleshless grins. The survivors of the XIXth, loyal every one, stepped forward when ordered and climbed into the carts, and each cart, as it was full, leapt back into the air and flew toward the high ground.

  Karah did not let herself flinch when the dead harnessed Windrush, or when she climbed into the next-to-last of the carts. She thought, We are beloved of Kevo-Death. Even now we go to do his work, else we would remain on the temple hill.

  Beloved of Kevo-Death. That, Karah decided, was an ugly thought.

  * * *

  Willek stood on the foredeck of her great flagship, the morning sun warm and welcoming on her face. She smiled. Beside her in a deck chair, Shemro sat passively, her once lovely eyes deep-sunken and hollow, her hands—now nothing more than skin-covered bones—resting limply on her lap.

  Willek smiled broadly to the assembled troops. Her image, carried by the priests' magic to all the ships of the fleet, would inspire confidence and courage in this next step in the Grand Admirals plan.

  "Today we sail to Tarin Tseld as its conquerors. We have destroyed loathsome Darkist's fleet, and his ground troops quake in fear at the very thought of us. For the glory of our beloved Shemro, now ruler of the two greatest nations in the world, let us go forth. Let us win for her the greatest prize there is!"

  A roar rose up from the anchored ships. Men and women, weapons raised in a triumphant salute, cheered Shemro.

  The priests brought their focus to Shemro's face, excluding Willek entirely from the image they sent to the ships. Willek fought down rage, and commanded the nearly-dead Shemro. Smile, you bitch! Give them something to fight for.

  Shemro smiled faintly, and Willek used a tiny thread of her magic to stretch the smile broader.

  The volume of the cheering doubled and redoubled, echoing across the water in the harbor as a solid wall of noise.

  Then one by one the ships raised their sails, and the report of a cannon boomed. The oars of the galleys dipped in unison, flashing in the sun. Willek's flagship led them out; the rest of the fleet fell in behind. They were only two days from Tarin Tseld—the winds were favorable—the prize was within reach.

  Two days, Willek thought. In two days, I'll own all of the world worth owning—and then I'll take the step I must to make it all official.

  She smiled down at Shemro, who stared straight ahead, beyond caring.

  * * *

  Darkist walked the parapets of the ancient Scholar's Wing of his palazzi, Shaad Shaabin at his side. The air was hot and dusty, and in the narrow twisting streets far below, the men and women of the great city of An Tiram moved slowly, and kept to the shade where such existed.

  "Master, you must come from the sun," Shaad Shaabin said "This heat will boil your blood and addle your mind."

  "I am cold," Darkist snapped. "My bones rattle and my flesh crawls. The weight of my years sits heavy upon my back today."

  "I'm sure it will pass," Shaad Shaabin said, and his voice was soothing.

  "I'm not." Darkist glared down at the people below. "I need to make more sacrifices. More children, I think. Young children—infants, perhaps. Their youth for my sake. Don't you agree?"

  Darkist looked over at Shaad. His eyes were hooded, and glittered like the scales of a wet viper. His beaked nose stuck out beyond the folds of his green hood. Green robe, green boots, green gloves—Darkist tried to remember if he had ever seen Shaad in anything but unlucky green, and decided he had not.

  "I think, master, that perhaps you near the time you have discussed."

  Servants who speak their winds are vile creatures. Shaad is vilest of all, he thought. But Shaad was probably right. He had forgotten how old his body was, but he'd worn it far beyond its physical limits. The old man cleared his throat. "Do not say those words to me again. We've beaten the Tykissians, but I must see them driven into the ground, so that they have no hope of rising again, before I can take that step."

  The two men paced further along the parapet. "How much longer," Darkist asked, "until the fleet is ready to sail? Have they sped repairs?"

  "The masts from the forests of Kalim have been delayed by typhoons," Shaad said, "and provisions for the galleys are in short s
upply. By the time the masts arrive, One willing, we will have sufficient food as well."

  Darkist hissed and swore. "When, then, do the captains say they will be ready?"

  Shaabin backed away. Darkist felt the man's fear as a tangible thing, a sweetdaache to be plucked from the tree and devoured. "They say—seven days from the arrival of the replacement masts."

  "Then how many of my ships are ready to sail now?"

  "Only a third, master."

  Darkist swayed as the heat of the day suddenly enveloped him. By the One, he felt old beyond measure, so weary every breath required conscious effort. A week? Could he wait a week, and the several days of sailing his fleet would take to reach the Tykissian shores—and then, however long his people needed to grind the Tykissian countryside to dust?

  Every heartbeat shook him. Every breath burned. His blood crawled at a slug's pace through his veins, and his mind was turning to rot. Several more weeks like this—

  "No," he whispered. "I already destroyed Shemro, and my vengeance stalks Willek. Youth awaits me, and I weary of this decrepit bag of bones." His power would be enough, even after what had to come, to conquer Tykis. His head snapped up and he glared at Shaad Shaabin. "Take Colchob to the Quiet Room, and ready him for me."

  Shaad turned away and stalked toward the passage that would lead, eventually, to Colchob's suites.

  "Run," the old man shouted.

  And then he delighted in the picture of Shaad Shaabin, the most dangerous man he permitted to live, fleeing like a frightened kitten at the sound of his voice.

  Darkist's muddled thoughts circled—he could not recall why he put off this change for so long. "How much more will you fear me," Darkist whispered at Shaad's retreating back, "when I have regained youth and strength?"

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Grenlaarins were arming themselves for battle, Jawain's people joined with Iano and Misa's—six-score fighters in all, both relatives and hirelings. Most had served in the Imperial forces; those who hadn't had done their stints locally. There wasn't much in the way of law in Farbluffs County, or the other Counties of the Plateau—locally, law was the sort of thing folks took care of themselves.

  That was what Konzin counted on.

  "Mount horses," Iano shouted, and over a hundred riders settled into saddles and reined in. The horses pranced and snorted, excited—good Grenlaarin horses all. Konzin hated to see so much breeding stock ride out, especially when he had no way to get it back. But the yearlings, the two-year-olds, the green-broke mounts, and the older brood mares and pastured studs were safely tucked away in the near pastures. There was enough good horseflesh left on the ranch for Konzin to start out with.

  Misa Grenlaarin stood on the porch of the house next to Konzin and the fool Gowdgeki, a flintlock cradled in the crook of her arm. She and the house staff were staying behind to guard the ranch—less than twenty of them all-told, with the least fighting experience and the oldest and most unreliable weapons. Konzin struggled to keep the grin from his face—just thinking about it made his heart beat faster with excitement.

  Jawain gave the signal. With loud whoops, the mounted fighters spurred their horses once around the yard at a slow canter, then charged out of the gate and up the road—heading north. The whole troop broke into a gallop, and Konzin frowned. They wouldn't be able to keep that up for long. Still, it made his life easier, for the riders vanished out of sight behind the nearest hill just that much faster.

  When the last was gone, Konzin turned to Misa, and with a respectful bow, said, "Madine, should I go up to the roof to keep watch?"

  She studied him with a look he would have expected had she just discovered pissbugs in the flour. "No," she said thoughtfully. "I think you'd better spend the day mucking out the stables. And Gowdgeki—" she turned to the hulking young idiot beside them,"—you go with him. If he tries to leave, hit him with your shovel. Understand?"

  The simpleton's round face beamed; he was always happy when someone set him a task within his capabilities. "Take 'im to the stable. Make 'im shovel shit. Hit 'im if 'e leaves. Yus, madine."

  Konzin felt the bottom of his stomach drop. Gowdgeki could put a fencepost into hard ground with two blows of a maul. They'd found him hammering a plow-point into the shaft with his naked fist once. Worse, he adored Misa Grenlaarin with a devotion Konzin reserved for money.

  So I'll be shoveling shit when help arrives.

  Konzin nodded politely to Misa and walked across the yard with Gowdgeki right on his heels.

  It's just something else they'll pay for.

  The first moments of the transfer were hell—Darkist's ancient body burned with racking pain, and as he linked with his grandson, he felt the magic burn through both bodies—pain twice, fed back through a circuit unbroken and inescapable. His grandson's mind resisted; his body, tied to the One in Change, struggled against the bonds.

  Youth and youth's attachment to its flesh created a formidable obstacle, but Darkist's mind, toughened by centuries of cunning and the uses of power, battered down the boy, who'd done nothing in his young life but play and futter and eat.

  The boy's soul slipped away from his flesh, slid into the decrepit hulk Darkist had occupied—and Darkist shivered, slithered, coalesced into the firm, hungry, powerful flesh he'd bred to become his new home. Then Darkist—Colchob XXIVth, now—straightened and looked at his hands. No liver spots. No swollen knuckles. No pain. He'd become so used to the pain that he didn't feel it. Not until it was gone.

  He closed his eyes and forced himself to remember the pathways of magic—the tenuous, once-again fragile links that ran between him and the power that moved the world. It was the most dangerous moment, that single pause while the old man struggled in his new flesh like a butterfly just emerged from its cocoon, wings still damp and crumpled. If the boy knew any magic at all, he would have, in the old man's body, sudden access to the well-worn channels through which power flowed like a river. He could kill Darkist in the magically weak body easily.

  But Darkist kept his young bodies fed and entertained and busy for just such a reason. Ignorance served the purpose of his power—the boy knew nothing.

  Darkist found the first of what would someday be many magical channels, and called the magic to him, and with it burned away the bonds that held him. He lifted Colchob's massive arms and gave a single shout of exultation.

  The walls of the Quiet Room drank the sound. Colchob-Darkist shook back his shoulders and gave a final smile to the shrivelling husk that had held his spirit for so long his grandson's soul looked back at him with melancholy horror before the hungry stone and the devouring presence within sucked him down. Then Darkist composed his features and strode out through the doors.

  "Where is the Yentror?" the guard captain barked.

  Behind him the war-slaves growled and rattled their swords. The crowd of nobles paused, hushed and still.

  "The tyrant Darkist is dead!" Colchob-Darkist roared. What lungs! he thought. Not a cough, not a wheeze. "With my hands and my magic I slew him, who slew my father."

  A long sigh went through the crowd. As one, the jewelled headdresses sank in obeisance. Noble and bureaucrat and servitor alike went to their knees, then forward on their faces. The gilded iron of the guard captain's facemask clanked against the pavement as he threw himself forward in the first of the three ritual prostrations. Uncertain, the war-slaves snuffled at his scent with their broad nostrils. Colchob-Darkist met their eyes and they bowed, acknowledging the spirit that had ruled their bloodlines for a millennia.

  "The Yentror is dead—may the Yentror rule forever!" the crowd began to chant. "Hail to the Lord of Ten Thousand Years!"

  Colchob-Darkist swept through them, hearing their cheers, hearing the sound spread outside through all the labyrinthine corridors of the palace and then the twisting streets of An Tiram. This too was ritual. It was mildly unusual for the new claimant to have killed his grandfather rather than his father, that was all.

  If only you knew, h
e thought, looking down from the balcony on the backs of his subjects as they grovelled before him. If only you knew how familiar all this is!

  A new shout arose: "Lead us! Command us! Lead us to victory!"

  But I already have led you to victory, he thought.

  One of the generals coughed at his elbow. "The latest reports, my Yentror. The barbarian fleet has been sighted off the eastern Delta, or at least part of it."

  Colchob-Darkist clutched at his throat. The hand was strong and young, but the magic within his flesh was weak, weak as a newborns. Memories of technique drifted sharp-edged through his consciousness, without the slight blurring of a failing brain, but also without the power channels a lifetime of sorcery cleared. He could remember them, but he could no more perform most of them than he'd been able to run and leap and climb in that ancient withered husk.

  The storm scattered the towhair ships! There can be no more than a few!

  "What… what troops have we in the area?"

  "There's the garrison of Melduk-on-Marsh, mighty one. An infantry brigade and a regiment of light cavalry, with some guns—sakers and falconets, light pieces."

  The new/old emperor of Tarin Tseld took a deep breath. "Send them. Let them meet the towhairs on the beach and throw them back before they can repair their damaged ships."

  He grew conscious of the general's curious stare. Towhair was the old, old term of abuse for Tykissians, not in common usage for centuries.

  "Go!"

  "Dawn, Grand Admiral," the priest said. "They… see nothing."

  Willek frowned slightly. The magician-priest was sweating more than the hot southland night would justify, the lanky muscles of her tattooed body trembling with exertion. For this endeavor she was stripped to the ancient shaman's dress of Old Tykis, beads and feathers and deerskin loincloth.

  "Prepare," she said quietly to the officers around her.

  Tense waiting, with the sounds of the ship and the fleet about her. Pale light to the east, then flickers of crimson on low clouds. Mist lay on the water even then, turning the standing rigging above her to traceries in the gloom, cutting off the deck past the foremast. It smelled hot and damp, alien, with a longshore stink of rotting seaweed and fish under it, and a hint of city smells. No more than a hint; they were a good ten miles east of the city of An Tiram, off the dunes and reclaimed marshlands that fringed the Tiram delta. A thousand years of fortress building guarded the channel into the Tseldene capital, and she wasn't about to do the enemy the favor of sailing in there. But there were more ways of killing a cat than choking it to death with cream.