Living God

by Dave Duncan

  “But not,” the sirdar continued, mouthing each word with care, “quite up to the standards of… others… we have seen here in the last few days.”

  Not bad. Not bad at all. It did not commit either way. Which was as it should be.

  “Not up to expectations, you mean?”

  Azakar grabbed at the hint thus offered. “Disappointing, really, Sire.”

  Azak nodded.

  Gurrak made a curious coughing noise.

  Azak looked at him sorrowfully. He quite liked Gurrak, a splendid horseman himself, an excellent man on a hunt. The terror in his face now was heartbreaking, but his voice remained remarkably steady.

  “I commend my sons to your service. Sire.”

  “I judge men by their deeds, not their fathers. Sirdar.”

  Sweat was streaming down Gurrak’s face, but he knew he had been given all the guarantee he would get. He bowed. Then he scrambled up on the parapet and stepped off.

  Azak snapped his fingers twice, for two heralds. “Inform Prince Tharkan ak'Azak that Sirdar Gurrak has met with an accident and he is to assume command of the Fourth…” He glanced at Azakar, but saw nothing in his eyes to contradict the pleased smile of the mouth. “…temporarily. And you — direct the Secretariat to issue the necessary commissions.”

  The men ran.

  Yes, another contender would give little fork-beard Azakar something to think about. There was always the chance that the two of them would gang up on their old man, of course, and bring a quarter of the army against him, but ganging up required some minimal amount of trust and trust did not run in the family. Never for long, anyway. And this appointment would be a general message to the first family that their innumerable younger brothers were now to be taken seriously. Tharkan must look to his own safety from now on.

  Azak walked away, eager to go in out of the sun and start work on the mountain of documents awaiting him. And in a little while he would find out just what that idiot Quarazak was dreaming of in disobeying orders and returning to port.

  Zark might very shortly be going to need a new admiral, as well as a new sirdar.

  Azak approved of the fortress of Quern, which was barren and functional and nondecadent. The room he used as a presence chamber had probably been a mess hall in the past, perhaps other things, also. It was eminently plain, a stone vastness full of hollow echoes, dimly lit by windows that were mere tunnels through walls several spans thick. Even now, just ten days or so short of Longday, it was cool. The secretaries swarmed like black insects over the document tables by the entrance; he sat at his desk at the far end. There was another door at his back, just in case.

  As a further advantage, the room was shielded against sorcery. Furkar had seen to that many years ago. Furkar had shielded a chamber for the caliph’s use in every one of the many palaces he used on his travels about Zark.

  Quarazak was eerily sure of himself. Even as his son came in through the wide doors and began marching across the slabbed stone floor toward his desk, Azak registered that curious absence of fear. He waved the secretaries away, and they scurried off like beetles, their black kibrs swirling around their ankles. They bowed to the prince in passing and then settled in around the tables of documents at the far end of the shadowed hall. Dung beetles.

  So now caliph and eldest son would have a private talk, overseen but not overheard. Quarazak stopped and bowed turban to knees.

  Amazingly sure of himself, he was, for an admiral who had flouted his orders when at battle stations. In the last hour a large portion of Azak’s nimble brain had been wrestling with that problem while the rest of it attended to the endless edicts and requisitions and proclamations. He had found no conceivable explanation.

  Mutiny at once suggested revolution, but he could not believe that it would be done like this. Now, on the very brink of war, he was probably safer than he had ever been since he first laid the sash of Arakkaran over his shoulder twenty-one years ago. And when it did come, it would be done with a blade or a vial, not a ship — not when he was half a league from the sea.

  It might be done by sorcery. Just for a moment he let his eyes shift to the ominous black-clad figure sitting alone in the farthest corner — Furkar, court sorcerer. If Furkar ever changed sides, then everything would be over very quickly. Yes, Furkar might do it like this.

  But not with Quarazak. The eldest prince was good, but not good enough, and he knew it. Furkar knew it. By the standards of ordinary men Quarazak was outstanding — tall and handsome, ruthless, quick of hand and mind. He was very nearly a duplicate of his father as he had been at that age, but not quite. Compared to Krandaraz he was nothing. He knew that, too. More than anything else in the world, perhaps, Quarazak would like to know where Krandaraz was. It was the last thing in the world Azak would ever tell him.

  Quarazak was waiting now for permission to speak. Azak did not tell him to take the solitary chair. Only Furkar ever sat in that chair.

  “This,” Azak said softly, “had better be good. Very good.”

  “It is, Sire. You will approve.” Ruby eyes twinkled.

  Play my own game at me, will you? Oh, he was sure of himself! He was afraid, of course. They all were, always, but Quarazak was much less afraid at the moment than he usually was, or ought to be.

  “You have thirty seconds.”

  “I brought a prisoner, Sire, one you will wish to interrogate yourself.”

  Azak spread his hands on the desk. He should have done that sooner. “A prisoner? I can think of no prisoner who would justify your presence here at the moment except perhaps the imperor himself.”

  His son chuckled very softly, deep in his throat. “Hardly.”

  “Or perhaps the sorcerer Rap of Krasnegar.” Now there would be an ally!

  “No, Sire, but you are close.”

  The old wound in Azak’s leg twinged as all his muscles stiffened at once. “Who is this prisoner?”

  “His wife.” Quarazak smiled in triumph. “Your wife, of course, by the laws of Zark.”

  7

  The Inosolan problem ached in Azak’s mind all the rest of the day, throbbing like a festering wound. Had he been asked beforehand, he would have said that the chances of Inosolan ever returning to Zark were so slight as to be nonexistent, like loyalty among djinns. The timing was so suspicious that coincidence could be ruled out absolutely. What did her arrival have to do with his invasion, though? He could not even guess who had instituted this: Rap himself, or the imperor, or the Almighty? Where did dwarves come into it, or goblins? There was certainly sorcery involved somewhere. Motive, means, culprit — all of them enigmas.

  Several times he found his mind wandering away from the endless flood of detail flowing across his desk. Inosolan! How could it be Inosolan? It must be an illusion, a trap of some sort.

  Quarazak had been sure. He had insisted that she was the woman he had seen at the wedding, so many years ago. On the ship he had questioned her closely, but he said he had used no violence, only threats. He had threatened to have her raped by every man in the fleet, but he had not shaken her story. She was Inosolan. She had business with the caliph, which she would divulge to no one else, and the caliph had a triangular scar on his ribs, about here. Which he did, although it was almost invisible now.

  Sorcery! It had to be sorcery.

  Azak had sent Furkar off to investigate in person and had then attempted to push ahead with his work. The day before launching the largest war of the century was no time to be woolgathering about a marriage twenty years old, a marriage that had never even been consummated.

  Yet, whispered a small voice of temptation.

  Quarazak had made the correct decision. Azak had told him so — that he could not fault anything his son had done in a very unexpected situation. As wife of the sorcerer, the woman was of vital importance; as former wife of the caliph, she must be treated as a state secret, concealed from public knowledge. Surprisingly, Quarazak had made a difficult decision correctly, which Azak would not h
ave expected of him.

  And Quarazak had replied, “Thank you. Father,” in a very annoying way. Then he had bowed and withdrawn to return to his post.

  It wasn’t exactly the way he had spoken that had been so accursedly annoying, it was the way Azak himself had reacted. He had been very tempted to call the boy back and give him command of the Sixth Panoply instead of Tharkan. That would have been a breach of security, for the enemy must continue to think that the navy was doing something important enough to require the personal attention of the eldest — imps were much more impressed by eldest sons than djinns were.

  It would have also been a breach of personal security. Throughout Zarkian history, any ruler who had ever begun to feel sentimental about his sons had arrived early for his appointment with the Gods. A firstborn had very little advantage over his brothers, but he did have some, and to provide him with any opportunity at all for military glory would always be rank suicide — the kid would be checking out the seraglio by nightfall. No, Quarazak must do his duty afloat. They also serve who only block the light.

  Paperwork! Why must a man who had conquered a world spend all his time chained to a desk when he would rather be out hunting, or reviewing the troops, or dallying in the women’s quarters? To top off all the requirements on the caliph’s time that day came news that his viceroy in Charkab had been assassinated. The culprits would be assuming that the forces he had left in the south were not adequate for massive reprisals. Well, that was true at the moment, but Quarazak’s deception would not be needed for more than five or six days.

  Azak dictated orders for the fleet to proceed to Charkab thereafter. After due consideration, he stipulated that the town be razed and the surviving inhabitants enslaved. That would keep all the other cities quiet until he returned.

  At noon, as was his wont when he was not hunting, he retired for a rest. Usually he enjoyed a woman at this time, but today he did not feel in the mood even for that. Doubtless that was the reason he was unable to sleep. Grumpily he ordered his handmaids to prepare his bath. After that, he went back to work.

  Inosolan! The only woman he had ever taken to wife and he had never even kissed her.

  Yet, said the little voice.

  What folly was this? She must be forty.

  Thirty-six. Six years younger than you.

  He had never made love to a woman older than thirty. He retired them then if they had been fruitful, or else gave them to his sons.

  A trembling herald from Third Panoply reported that half the water skins had been filled and one-third of them were leaking already. Azak sent queries to all other panoplies and ordered requisitions of barrels, wagons, more draft animals.

  Furkar returned at last. The woman was telling the truth, he said.

  Azak leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at his court sorcerer while he thought about that. Furkar was the only man in Zark who was not afraid of him. Probably Azak ought to be afraid of Furkar, but he wasn’t. Partly that was mere fatalism — he would die when the Gods decreed, like any other man. Partly it was because he knew Furkar to be utterly dedicated to the cause.

  Long ago, impish soldiers had killed Furkar’s father. He detested the Impire just as hotly as Azak did. They had made common cause against it. Furkar had made it all possible, Furkar and his votaries — Azak did not know who they were or how many of them there were, and he never asked. Without that sorcerous assistance, Azak would long ago have died as an obscure sultan. He would never have made reality out of his empty claim to be caliph. He knew that and Furkar knew that. Probably no one else did, though, and certainly no one in Zark would ever dare whisper it.

  Furkar had not taken the visitor chair reserved for him alone, so he did not intend to stay long. He wore black, always — a trailing black kibr, and even the agal binding his black headcloth was itself black. Azak had never seen anything of him except his hands and face. They were paler than most, but otherwise unremarkable, except that he was clean-shaven. He looked about twenty-two or -three, but he had looked like that when Azak had first met him, nineteen years ago. He was a sorcerer.

  He never smiled. He seemed to have no outside interests, no friends, no interest in women or boys. He never, ever smiled.

  “You understand. Majesty,” he said in the soft tones of the desert men, “that I used a bare minimum of power. The Covin is still probing.”

  “I do understand. We agreed. What of her companions?”

  “They are in the lowermost dungeon. It is shielded.”

  Azak nodded. “Then there are sorcerers among them?”

  Furkar’s face did not change expression. “If you wish me to take the risk, I shall do so.”

  “Risk?”

  “I did not enter the shielding. Together they could be strong enough to overpower me.”

  Azak pouted. He detested sorcery, but it was a necessary evil. “Of course. No, I do not wish you to take that risk. Our entire venture depends upon you and your, er, associates. I shall see the woman as soon as I have time. You have no clue as to her purpose in coming here?”

  “No, Majesty. Only what you already know — that Warlock Olybino named her husband as leader of the opposition to the Covin. That does suggest she may have been sent with a message.”

  “How about her emotional state?”

  “Yes, that is curious. Agitated. She is understandably frightened, but hiding it better than I should have believed possible. A tentative diagnosis, that is.”

  Azak sighed. That sounded like Inosolan. “Well, we shall see. I shall expect you to watch our encounter, of course.”

  Furkar inclined his head respectfully and walked away.

  Azak shivered, and went back to work.

  The work kept coming to Azak. Forage, water skins, arrows, horseshoes, bandages, medicines… He was surrounded by morons. Any detail he did not check himself would inevitably explode into a problem during the campaign. He owed his success to his infinite capacity for taking pains.

  He had always done his best work by night. He revived after the sunset meal and a new phalanx of secretaries arrived to help, but it was well past midnight before he felt able to send for Inosolan. By then he was bone weary, aware that he must snatch a few hours’ sleep before he led out the army at dawn. Still, if the woman had been nervous before, then the long wait would not have calmed her fears.

  He had dismissed the beetles, although their tables were still loaded with documents. His desk was lit by lanterns hanging from the high ceiling, but otherwise the room was dark. Furkar sat like a graven replica of himself in the far corner, a disembodied face, and even that invisible unless one knew where to look.

  She stepped in through one flap of the double doors, and it closed behind her. Then she began to walk across the wide expanse of barren stone toward the desk. She was not as tall as he remembered, but of course there was imp blood in her. She had been garbed in plain white, the all-enveloping chaddar of Zark. As she drew close he saw the green of her eyes and he remembered their wedding night, the one time he had seen her unclothed.

  Ransom? She had been stolen away from him by the imperor himself, all those long years ago. Was it possible that she had been sent back as a peace offering? Did they really think he would call off his war now, for this?

  And yet… He had possessed hundreds of women, probably thousands. Why then must his heart labor so shamefully at the sight of this one?

  He spread his hands before him on the desk.

  She did not prostrate herself or even curtsey. She dropped the veil from her face and pulled off her head cloth, spilling honey hair loose about her shoulders.

  “Hello, Azak,” she said airily. “Been a long time, hasn’t it?” She sat down on the chair unbidden and smiled at him. Her face was no longer that of a girl, but he would have guessed ten years short of her age. Northern sun was kinder, perhaps. The lines on her face were faint, certainly not to be classed as wrinkles. Her eyes were still as green and bright as the emeralds in his baldric.
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  “I was not expecting you.”

  She chuckled. “I don’t suppose you were! The years have been kind to you. Big Man. More weight? Quite a lot more weight! But you have the bones for it. You look good.”

  She was lying, of course — he had proof of that — but the words raised his chin anyway.

  “They have been kind to you, also,” he said huskily.

  “Flattery! I have borne four children.”

  “I have bred a hundred sons.”

  “It’s easier for you.”

  Had not Furkar himself told him she was frightened, he would not have believed it. He would have sworn that she was the only person in Zark, apart from the sorcerer, who was not afraid of him — how unlike the fawning, shivering maidens who served his needs in the seraglio! She seemed totally at ease, her smile was perfectly composed. He had seen that smile before somewhere… Oh, yes, her aunt.

  “Princess Kadolan?”

  A shadow darkened that golden face. “She passed away a few years ago. Very peacefully. How about Prince Kar?”

  “He developed ambitions.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Again the pearl on his index finger darkened momentarily.

  “Zark is the only place I know,” Inosolan said gaily, “where ambition is so swiftly fatal. And Mistress Zana?”

  “She, also, has been weighed by the Gods.”

  “I am truly sorry to hear that.”

  The pearl stayed white.

  This was women’s chatter. She could keep this up all night! What would it take to make her show her fear?

  “And what dread purpose brings you to our domain, Inos?”

  She raised a golden eyebrow. “I do not think you should describe your eldest son as a 'dread purpose,' Azak! I had no intention of violating your borders until he insisted. I was on my way to Thume.”

  White, still — but Azak’s heart chilled.