"Then consider it given," said Zeyaana. "One hour past sunset. My father, his chief advisers and every male in the Palace Quarter who bears even a drop of his blood." As he said this, they heard the patter of running feet, and a child's voice shouting something down a hallway, echoes distorting the words. "They all must die. Will your men have trouble with this?"
"I shouldn't think so. Killing is like breathing for that lot. And if they were squeamish, they wouldn't be working for me. I'd rather wonder about you, my lady, killing off all your relations in one go. Not that I object to the killing of one's own blood...the gods know there are a fair number of brothers and cousins on my end I'd happily cut down."
"They are not my blood," Zeyaana said coldly. "They are the children of my father and a complication best done away with."
"Take Ithoshaara alive," said Lugalzaeer. "I will have the pleasure of killing him myself."
"As you say. But what of Ithkaan?" asked Hatugali. "He is loved by many in this city. The man who does the killing there will be hated. So it won't be me who does the deed...nor the two of you, I wager."
"That is already taken care if," said Zeyaana. She looked at Azaran and smiled.
"Him?" Hatugali was surprised. "He looks set to piss himself!"
"When the time comes he'll be ready," said Zeyaana. "Why else would I keep him around? The beloved vizier, cut down by a northern barbarian. It will spare us the scandal of doing it ourselves. Though I was going to wait until after Shapurashi was installed, and do it quietly...but if it must be done now, I have no objections. And neither will Azaran. I will see to that."
Hatugali nodded. "So be it. I'll pass the word. When the time comes, Princess, barricade yourself in your chambers. It might be chaotic for a while." He stood up, a smile creasing his face. "And so it begins."
"Nothing will stop us," said Lugalzaeer.
"Nothing," Zeyaana echoed.
Lying against the wall, Azaran continued to stare into nothing, oblivious to everything and everyone...
Segovac couldn't stop staring at the dead man lying in the middle of the street. Arms out, back to the sky, empty eyes staring at the bright blue face of the Mansion. Thrust through the chest was the broken shaft of a spear.
He stepped out from the shadow of Sagosh's temple, blinking in the bright sunlight as his eyes adjusted from the shadows. The smell of incense replaced by that of smoke and blood. He stepped around large red puddles covering the ground, staying out of the way of men clearing the dead, heaping the remains into overladen wagons.
Segovac stepped towards the body and looked down. A young fellow, probably only a few years away from his mothers teat. Skinny, the ribs showing cleanly beneath the flesh. Distended veins on neck showed he was a habitual Tear Drinker, which also explained the reason why he lay dead in the street before the walls of the temple, along with several hundred of others of his kind.
It was the noise that woke Segovac at first, a rumbling sound that could only come from hundreds of voices all shouting at once in anger. By the time he'd dressed and made his outside the priests were already slamming the temple doors shut. Others climbed atop the walls with bows and spears. Rocks and pieces of brick flew up from the street outside. One of the acolytes was struck in the head and fell off, gaining a broken leg along with the dent in his skull. Burning brands followed soon after, quickly doused by buckets of water. Segovac couldn't see what was happening on the other side of the wall, but he could hear it well enough. Angry shouts, curses, followed by cries of alarm and the sounding of horns. After that it was the familiar clash of weapons, cries of pain and death. Though this time around he was spared having to watch.
Eventually the priests opened the doorway to a scene of massacre. A mob of Tear Drinkers made desperate by their cravings had come to the temple, drawn by a rumor that the priests had stockpiled the remaining supply of the drug inside. Nashurensi mounted the wall and addressed the mob, telling them it was not true and they shouted back their disbelief. He exhorted them to abandon the Tears and return to the path of the righteous and they hooted in derision. He ordered them to return to their homes...and then things became violent.
It didn't last long, of course. The priests were armed, and even as the mob gathered before the temple, Shapurashi sent men from other parts of the city to contain them. The Tear Drinkers, weakened by withdrawal and years of narcotic abuse, were no match for hardened fighters. Only one way it could have ended.
Two men appeared, one stepping back Segovac with a mumbled apology. "Pardon me..." They grabbed the boys legs. Then one looked over at him. "You know this one?"
"Pardon?"
"This one." He pointed at the corpse. "He a friend of yours? Kin?"
Segovac shook his head. "Never seen him until now."
"And you never will again. He's food for the vultures." They dragged the body away, its head bumping against the stones of the plaza.
Two priests stood before the doorway to the temple. One had an arm in a sling, the other was holding some sort of medicinal compress against a cut on his forehead. "Best get used to it, Eburrean," said the one with the broken arm. "They'll be back. There was a riot in the Quarter of the Goat last night. Tear Drinkers have gone mad from their cravings. It's all we can do to keep them confined to that part of the city."
"If Shapurashi doesn't take the Palace soon," said the other, "there won't be a city left."
Both men turned around and headed back into the temple. "Hey, Eburrean," one of them called out. "Join us for dinner?"
Segovac shook his head. "Not just yet. Need time to think."
The priests went through the door. Segovac watched the men clean up the bodies for a while longer, then walked away, his feet picking their own direction. He left the plaza and headed towards the harbor side, where the sea breeze drive away the stench of violence. People were about in the streets, but there was none of the vibrancy of days before. Men hurried about their business with their heads down and hand near weapons. Few women could be seen and most of them had escorts of one sort or another. Every man was armed and all looked on their fellows with fear.
Armed rebels strutted about in the streets. They ran the gamut from marines of the fleet now sworn to Shapurashi to private retainers of the various lords and merchant princes and even a few acolytes from the temple. All marked their allegiance by bands of green cloth tied around arms or foreheads. Shapurashi claimed to have liberated the city from the tyranny of Enmer-Galila, yet the citizens of Kedaj looked on his swaggering bravos with fear.
The patient is killed by the cure. He felt lightheaded.
Segovac went up to the harbors edge. Few ships were at anchor. Those merchants who'd been in port raised sail at the first sign of conflict in the city and made for the horizon. The harbor of Kedaj glittered under the afternoon sun, cleared of ships, boats and swimmers. He sat down on a bollard, closing his eyes and letting the sea breeze waft over his face.
Midsummer was approaching. Back home in Eburrea, the clans would preparing for the great festival to mark the solstice. He could see the green of the forests and fields, the little streams flowing, the deer flitting through the trees, hear the buzz of insects and chirping of the birds. Hear the voices of his countrymen as they worked the fields. The laughter of their children. The sheep in their fold, the young warriors at practice, full of boastful arrogance. The stars at night that looked so bright and so close he could almost reach out and touch it. And the Mansion...filling the half the northern sky.
"What am I doing here," he said out loud. What have I gotten myself into? He closed his eyes, listened for the voice of his god, but heard on the wind from the sea. He looked over his shoulder at the pyramid palace, riding above the rooftops of the city. Shapurashi held the city, but without the Palace it was barely a victory. And time was running out.
Enough of this. There was work to do. He got to his feet. A buzzing sound flitted past his ear, and then something stung the back of his neck. He clapped his hand to the
spot. It came away smeared with blood and the crushed remains of some insect. That's going to leave a welt, he thought to himself, wiping his hand clear on the bollard.
Segovac walked away from the waterfront. By the time held gone ten steps, he felt lightheaded. Another ten after that and the world started to sway. He came to a halt by a closed shop, leaned against a wall near an alleyway running along one side of the building. His head swam, as if he'd drunk too much wine. Which didn't make any sense, since all he'd to drink today was water...
Segovac stepped away from the wall. His legs collapsed under him and he fell into the mouth of the alleyway.
A pair of sandaled feet stepped before his eyes. "Help me," Segovac tried to say, but the words came out slurred. The feet walked out of his line of sight. Someone grabbed his legs and pulled him further into the alley, then turned him over on his back.
Segovac looked up at a dirty Tear Drinker clothed in rags, who stared intently at his face. The man looked up, making sure no one was watching, then looked back down at Segovac. He concentrated. His body seemed to shimmer, the features shifting in shape, the hair fading away to baldness. The emaciated, drug-ruined body filled out slightly, though it remained lean. A moment later the Tear Drinker was gone, and Nerazag stood above him.
"You!" Segovac managed to get out.
"Yes. I've been watching you." Nerazag stripped the rags off his body, seemingly unconcerned about his nudity. He picked up a cloth bundle lying on the ground nearby and opened it, taking a plain tunic and trousers very similar to the ones Segovac was wearing. "You've been a busy fellow," Nerazag said as he dressed himself. "The city is in turmoil and you had no small part to play in it. Very annoying at first...but in every crisis there is an opportunity. One just needs to know when to strike.”
Nerazag stood over Segovac again. The clothes hung loosely on his body, meant for a man of greater size. He stared at Segovac, studying him from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. Segovac felt his skin crawl, as if invisible spiders were crawling along him, pricking his skin with needle-like toes.
He shimmered again, the clothes filling out as his body grew in size, his face reshaping itself, his jaw becoming wider, short gray hair and two weeks worth of stubble appearing on his flesh. After a moment, Segovac found himself staring up at his own face.
Nerazag knelt down and pressed his hand against Segovac's throat. "I think..." he said, his voice suddenly slurred and distorted. He closed his mouth and waited a moment. The crawling uncomfortable sensation returned, this time concentrated at the back of Segovac's throat.
"I think this will do nicely," said Nerazag, speaking in Segovac's voice. He back up, waggling his jaw back and forth and massaging his temples.
"I was going to kill you," Nerazag said. "It would be days or even weeks before anyone found your body. But instead, I give you the gift of life. You and Azaran have caused me no end of trouble. My revenge would have no point unless both of you are there to see it in effect."
He picked up a burlap sack that had been left against one of the wall, grimacing at the acrid smell that rose up. "The drug that felled you will wear off in a few hours. More than enough time for me to set certain things in motion. As soon as your recover your limbs, do head over to the Palace. I'd hate for you to miss the festivities."
The sack dropped over Segovac, covering his body and filling his nostrils with the stench of cat piss. He heard Nerazag walk away and tried to curse, tried to call out, but only a dull moan came from his lips.
"Azaran."
Zeyaana called out his name. After a moment the man looked up, face blank and slack. She frowned, called out his name again. "Azaran!"
He continued to stare at her, his mind lost in that pink haze that had been his existence for the last few days. No bad memories rising from the depths, no voices...just days of floating in emptiness. It seemed almost heavenly...perfect. Only he had no understanding of such a concept at this moment. But if asked, and if the meaning of the world was explained to him, then Azaran would state without reservation that yes, in this place and at this moment, he was happy...
She slapped him. The pink haze vanished, replaced by pain and confusion. He frowned, standing up and towering over the woman, anger beginning to build somewhere in the back of his mind.
"Good, you are awake." She cupped her hand under his jaw. The anger flowed away. "Azaran," she asked. "Do you love me?"
He frowned. It was an odd question. Did her love her? A conundrum...until this moment Azaran was not aware he was capable of loving anything. He'd never felt anything like what poets and bards and their ilk had sung about. It was another mystery in a world full of mysteries...
"Do you love me?" Her touched turned warm. He looked down into her face, that perfect face, her eyes wide and limpid like bottomless pools. Her free hand touched the base of her throat, half hiding her breasts from view and he wanted to do nothing more than fall to his knees and worship this wondrous creature was speaking to him.
"Yes..." he whispered.
"And you would do anything for me?"
"Anything..."
She smiled, and it was like the sun rising. "I want you to kill Ithkaan."
He frowned. Kill the Vizier? He was an old man, it made no sense.
Wake up. It was the silent passenger. The fog began to lift, reason cut through the confusion. He couldn't kill anyone for this woman...he would not... "No..." he said, taking a step back. "I...why do you ask this? What are you doing..."
Zeyaana stepped towards him. Her fingers pressed down at the base of her throat. The skin turned a dark red that swiftly became black. "Obey me," she said, in a voice that bounced off the insides of his skull. "Kill Ithkaan!"
"No," Azaran mumbled, but his will was weakening. The silent passenger was saying something but he could not make out the words, could not resist. Zeyaana's voice filled his existence, it crumpled his soul and shivered his bones.
"KILL ITHKAAN!" Each word coming on down like a edict from the gods of this place. He could not resist. He looked at her face, now flushed and glistening with sweat. Her fingers had dug into the flesh at the base of her neck, as if she wanted to rip out her own heart.
"I...will kill Ithkaan," he said.
"Go now. Take your sword and go!"
Azaran turned around and headed for the door to her apartments in the palace. Along the way he picked up a sheathed sword leaning against the wall. He walked through and closed it behind, headed deep into the pyramid.
Zeyaana watched him go. She smiled. They were close...so close. Only a matter of time now...wait. Something was wrong. She felt a warm trickle on her upper lip. She touched her mouth and her fingers came away red with blood. More red drops fell down, staining the front of her dress.
Then she doubled over as sharp pains shot through her abdomen, like hot knives carving their way through under her skin. Zeyaana opened her mouth to cry out in pain and instead vomited up blood. She fell to the floor, curled up in pain. The skin at the base of her throat was black as pitch, and pulsing in the center was a dark red bead of light. She reached up to touch it and opened her mouth in a silent scream at the agony.
"No..." she whispered. Nerazag had warned her, but she thought herself strong enough. "Not now. So close....not now...."
She reached towards the door, tried to call for help. Then the pain returned and it was all she knew.
Chapter Eight
"Nine hundred and thirty six dead." Admiral Sargonaddon's grim words carried across the room. "That is the initial count. Of these, fifty seven were our men. Eight hundred and twelve were Tear Drinkers from the Quarter of the Goat and the slums along the western edge of the harbor. The remainder were common citizens caught in the middle."
Shapurashi listened to the report. His kept his expression calm, betraying no sign of the fear or concern churning within him. The other rebel leaders were not as stoic, moaning or cursing as the Admiral spoke. Sargonaddon himself had a bandage wrapped around his tem
ple, suggesting that he'd been in the thick of it. The fighting was fierce and most agreed that only the presence of the fleet marines kept the mob from spilling into the rest of the city. Which made reports of casualties among them all the more worrisome. "I stationed two more companies along the edges of the Quarter of the Goat. Going into the Quarter itself is out of the question at the moment, we would need an army to bring that place to heel..."
"Where did you find two extra companies?" asked one of the leaders, a merchant named Gaumashta, who'd swapped his customary silks for a coat of leather reinforced with iron scales. The way it lay over his prominent belly gave the merchant the appearance of an iron turtle. "We're stretched thin as it is."
"I didn't," answered Sargonaddon. "I shifted them over from the Quarter of the Moon."
"What!" exclaimed another man, whose home lay in that part of the city. "Are you mad? We are overrun with thieves as it is! Why last night, a man of my acquaintance had his home broken into by ruffians and was forced to watch they stripped his home of everything he owned! Had he not sent his wife and children into the countryside, Sagosh knows what outrages they might have suffered..."
"Where would you suggest I take them from?" Sargonaddon asked testily. "The city garrison abandoned their posts when we rose. Those who didn't fled into the Palace. I tell you now, my lords, that the situation cannot last. We held off the last incursion from the Tear Drinkers. But they will be back, the cravings will see to that. If they come out again, the men in place will not be enough to hold them. I will have to pull men from all other quarters...including those besieging the Palace."
That set off a tumult. Every man in the room began talking at once, straining to be heard. The Admiral sat down, sighing with relief as the weight came off his aching feet. Shapurashi closed his eyes for a moment, the shouting voices rising over him like a rising tide.
Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3) Page 17