The King of the Crags

by Stephen Deas

  Vale smiled amiably. “All the stories I have read say that the blood-mages demanded sacrifices to appease the dragons. That their binding of the monsters required blood and plenty of it. A hundred slaughtered each and every week. I found that number in some story or other. And now you do it with potions. No blood at all?”

  “Become an alchemist and find out,” snapped Jeiros. “We keep the dragons in check. That is what we do and all you need to know. Above all else. Above everything else. Do your stories tell you how Narammed came to be the first speaker?”

  “They agree rather better on that.”

  “The nine realms were falling to war. We chose Narammed. Us. The alchemists. We put ourselves behind him and we pushed him to power. He was wise enough to understand what we were doing and why. The speaker keeps the kings and queens of the nine realms in check so that we alchemists can do what we must without impediment. That is the purpose of the speaker. They are arbiters, that’s all. Most who have come since have not understood it and none save Narammed himself would acknowledge it, but we do not serve the speaker. The speaker serves us.”

  Vale chuckled. “I don’t think so, Grand Master, but you could try that on at the next council and see how far you get.”

  “The speaker serves the realms, Vale. So do I. So do you. We all have the same master. You know, strictly, according to all the laws of the Order, we serve Aruch. Both of us.”

  Vale was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, he spoke very softly, almost whispered. “Some of what you say I grant is true. The first Adamantine Men gave themselves to Narammed because they understood his cause. He had forsaken his dragons and the power that came with them so that he could mediate the disputes of other kings. The story that everyone thinks they know is that Narammed slew a dragon with his bare hands.” He cocked his head and gave Jeiros a glance, begging to be contradicted.

  “With the Adamantine Spear, Night Watchman. That’s the legend. Except it’s not true.”

  “No.” Vale smiled and shifted on his haunches. “Because it wasn’t Narammed; it was some other warrior. The nameless hero. All these other warlords we call kings and queens were nothing more than thugs, brutal ones at that. Even those who were clever enough to understand Narammed’s wisdom wouldn’t have wanted it. So we showed them his strength instead. Us. The Adamantine Men. Even we don’t know the name of the man who slew the dragon, but we revere him. He was the greatest hero of all. He gave the power of his name and his deeds to Narammed. We showed them that we could kill their dragons and that is why they bent their knees to Narammed. We went from one eyrie to the next carrying his message. The dragon-slayer.” Vale rocked back on his heels. He wasn’t looking at Jeiros anymore, but somewhere distant, off into the past.

  “Don’t get all misty-eyed on me, Night Watchman.” Jeiros took a deep breath and paused. The Adamantine Men almost worshipped their story. The Order had a different story, one with a lot more dragon-poison in it, but with much the same outcome in the end. He’d been thinking of sharing it with the Night Watchman, but the look in Vale’s eyes changed his mind. He settled for something else instead. “It’s a fine legend you have. But think. Your stories speak of lone men with swords and axes slaying dragons. How possible is that? One man on his own cannot kill a grown dragon. Even the best of your soldiers could never, ever do that. Not by the strength of his arm. He must have been quite a clever fellow, don’t you think?”

  “It was a unique feat. One never to be repeated.” Vale snapped back to the present. “What is your point, Grand Master? I would happily make a habit of talking history with you, but I suspect you have a point you wish to make. The trouble with you lot is that you’re so used to coming at things askance that you’ve forgotten how to ask a direct question.”

  “I am leading you to a certain way of thinking.”

  “Then let me spare you the embarrassment of being any more hamfisted about it than you already have. I will agree with you, within these four walls and never beyond them, that Speaker Zafir leaves a great deal to be desired. Nevertheless, were any man to come to my room late at night and intimate that I should enter into some sort of conspiracy with regard to ridding ourselves of her, I should be obliged to inform her, and she would doubtless have them killed or something equally unpleasant. I serve the speaker, Grand Master. Orders. The Guard obeys orders. From birth to death. Nothing more, nothing less.” He smiled, and there wasn’t anything friendly about it this time. “That’s our creed.”

  Jeiros sat very still and quiet for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “But whose orders, Night Watchman?”

  “The speaker’s orders, Grand Master.”

  That’s me told then. He didn’t get up though. “I know how Adamantine Men are made. Do you know how to make an alchemist?”

  Vale sighed and his face hardened. Jeiros had outstayed his welcome now, that much was clear. “Every year I watch as thousands of the desperate and the poor come to the City of Dragons to try and sell their children to the Order. I know that some of the ones who don’t get taken are left on our doorstep. I know there are men who will, for a fee, take a child from its parents and bring it here. I know that a few such men are even honest. I also know that a good few are not. I know that the Taiytakei slavers profit handsomely.” He smirked. “What do you want me to say, alchemist?”

  “That there are secrets no one else should know, Night Watchman. Not even a speaker. Not even you.”

  “I don’t like secrets, Jeiros. The blood-mages built their power on secrets. You alchemists broke them by breaking their secrets first, but you have forgotten that and now you follow the same path. So now I am left to wonder, what can you know that the speaker should not?”

  Jeiros stood up. “I should go. But I can think of two things. The first is that we alchemists are not so far removed from the blood-mages we overthrew as to leave any of you comfortable, if you knew the truth of it. The second is a secret that you know too, if only you’d cast your mind back to think of it. I know what Narammed said when he gave you your name, Night Watchman. Do you remember?” When night comes it falls to the Adamantine Men to keep watch over the nine realms. No need to spell it out though. Vale would know the words inside and out. “How dark does it have to be, Vale?”

  “Let me ask you this, master alchemist. If there is to be a war, can you not stop it? Can you not simply take away their dragons? How many cities will burn before you do that? If our land is burned by dragons who happen to have riders on their backs, why is that so different from dragons that do not? If it all burns anyway, what exactly was the point of you being here?”

  Jeiros’ voice dropped to a dry whisper. “When the dragons have riders, there is at least still some hope,” he breathed. “That is the point.” The words sounded hollow though.

  Vale hadn’t moved as Jeiros went to the door; now the Night Watchman had his back to the alchemist. Vale didn’t move. “Well then,” he said very softly. “Here’s your answer. Pitch-black, master alchemist. It has to be pitch-black.”

  Jeiros let himself out. He didn’t bother trying to hide himself on the way back. All things considered, it seemed rather futile.

  16

  THE SPEAKER ZAFIR

  She was at her best when she was angry, and the more her fury waxed the more magnificent she became. Jehal watched her in silent admiration. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Today’s entertainment was watching acting Grand Master of the Order of the Scales Jeiros being metaphorically flayed alive. Yesterday it had been Tassan. The Night Watchman, it seemed, was now a routine victim of the speaker’s ire. And so he should be. I would have him hanging from a gibbet. Ten thousand invincible warriors guard the palace, and look at the state of it! You should have taken your own life and spared everyone the embarrassment of looking at you.

  “Unacceptable!” Zafir was already on her feet, but now she picked up the empty wine goblet from the arm of her throne and hurled it at the grand master. It was a good t
hrow, and would have hit Jeiros squarely in the face if he hadn’t ducked. It clanged across the floor behind him and lay still. None of the servants who usually rushed to clear away errant goblets and the like moved a muscle.

  There was a moment of silence. Jeiros was red-faced and trembling, although out of fear or fury was hard to tell. Probably a rather delicious mixture of both, since Zafir’s temper was both fierce and unpredictable. Jehal kept his face stern, but inside he was beaming. Goblet throwing, the sport of kings. How I’ve missed this . . . Both Jeiros and the speaker looked like they’d had plenty of practice at this sort of thing while he was away. They might even have rehearsed it.

  The silence continued. He could feel the tension between the speaker and her grand master rising and rising, until even the air between them seemed to be trying to get out of the way. With a sigh, he stood up. As soon as he did, he could feel the wave of relief through the hall. Thank the ancestors for Prince Jehal. He’d been doing a lot of this lately, almost from the moment he’d landed in the wreckage of the Adamantine Eyrie. The Red Riders’ attack had been no more than a scratch, superficial and quickly healed, but the wound to Zafir’s pride had been savage.

  See what happens when you don’t listen to me? But that doesn’t help either. Although I’d rather enjoy saying it. He bowed to Speaker Zafir. “Your Holiness.” It took her longer than usual to give him a grudging nod and sit back down on her throne. She folded her arms angrily. Jehal set his eyes on the grand master. Jeiros was looking at him with a mixture of pleading and defiance.

  “The council of kings recognizes Prince Jehal!” boomed the court herald. Jehal winced. Calling this farce a council of kings was absurd, but that was Zafir for you. Calling it that had at least forced King Sirion out of his tower and into the chamber.

  “Grand Master Jeiros.” Jehal favored him with a smile. “Let us be reasonable. No one holds the Order responsible for the Red Riders, whoever they are . . .”

  “I should hope not! They’ve burned—”

  “Several of the Order. I know. We all know.” Jehal let his smile slip. “Please don’t interrupt me while I’m speaking. It does nothing for my disposition. If you do it again, I shall simply leave you to resolve your dispute with the speaker on your own. Doubtless you’ve always wanted to make a close inspection of the dungeons under the Glass Cathedral.”

  Jeiros went from being red in the face to purple. “How dare you threaten me, Prince. Only a council of kings can—”

  He didn’t get to finish before Zafir was on her feet again. “This is a council of kings, you old fool,” she shouted. Jehal could see her hand looking for something else to throw. A knife, perhaps?

  Jeiros took a step forward. “Then where are the kings?” he shouted back.

  Zafir came down from her throne, step by step toward him. “Would you have me drag Queen Shezira and King Valgar out of their prisons? Prince Tichane is here for King Valmeyan. King Tyan is dead and Prince Jehal is not yet crowned. King Silvallan hasn’t yet deigned to answer my summons, and King Narghon is content to let us resolve this matter without his advice. What would you have me do?”

  Jeiros snorted. “Prisoners and princes. I say again, where are the kings? Where are the queens?”

  “King Sirion is here,” thundered Zafir, “and I am a queen!”

  There was another moment of silence. Jehal broke it, clapping his hands slowly. Before either of you do anything irrevocably stupid.

  “Bravo, Grand Master, bravo. A cheap point bravely won. Yes, Speaker Zafir has still yet to appoint an heir to her own throne and pass on her crown.” He shot Zafir a glance that told her to keep quiet. He could hardly count on her doing what he asked these days, but on this occasion she did. “I applaud your courage.”

  Grand Master Jeiros took a step forward. “Until she does—”

  “But not your wisdom!” barked Jehal. “Where do the Red Riders strike? South of the Purple Spur. In Queen Zafir’s lands, in the speaker’s lands, in the border between them. It is a well known principle of war, written in the first chapter of Prince Lai’s Principles, that an effective campaign requires a single absolute leader. Speaker Zafir is wise to keep her crown until these renegades have been crushed. I’m sure, as soon as that has been done, she will be delighted to name her heir.” He shot Zafir another glance. And you better had.

  “Prince Jehal—” Jeiros began.

  “The Red Riders fly on the backs of dragons, Grand Master. What would happen if those dragons did not receive your potions, Grand Master?”

  Jeiros rolled his eyes. “As we all very well know, they would become wild. They would turn on their own riders.” Which was barely scratching the surface of the truth, but was as much as the grand master or any other alchemist would admit to, except perhaps to a council of kings that actually had some kings in it.

  “Since that has clearly not happened, one must assume that they are receiving your potions, Grand Master. Who makes these potions?”

  “The Order of course.”

  “Anyone else? Perhaps you would care to speculate, Grand Master? Who is supplying your potions to these outlaws?”

  The alchemist snorted and his lip curled. “I cannot begin to imagine. They have stolen a goodly quantity from the speaker’s eyries. As for the rest, ask amongst yourselves. Ask the kings and queens of your illustrious council.” He sounded a little uncertain; he was quite clever enough to see where Jehal was going with this.

  “They are your potions, Grand Master, and I am asking you. We will most certainly inquire of the kings and queens of the realms, but is it not possible that these riders have friends within your Order? For all their treason, they are doubtless powerful men, with powerful families.” Not that their families will know what they’re doing, since the penalty for this will most certainly run deep into all their bloodlines.

  “Preposterous.”

  “Really?” Jehal raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound entirely sure.”

  “The Order would never . . .” Jehal could see the grand master thinking. Thinking that he was almost certainly right. That there was almost certainly no treachery from within the Order itself. That he had almost nothing to fear. And then too he was thinking about the consequences, if one of those almosts turned out to be wrong. Catastrophic for him at least, with no almost about it. And he was thinking about Jehal, and of what he knew about the prince that Hyram had called the Viper, who twisted and turned and knew secrets about people that they didn’t even know themselves. Jehal let him stew for a second or two, before putting on his most reasonable voice.

  “All the council of kings is asking, Grand Master, is that you audit your potion supplies.”

  “Counting, Grand Master,” muttered Zafir acidly.

  Jeiros stamped a foot. “Do you think we are not already doing that? I have spent months, months, merely trying to count all the dragons in the realms to determine whether Queen Shezira’s renegade”—he glared at Jehal—“is dead or alive. Do you have any conception of how difficult it is to count even dragons? And yet you ask me to count potions? And frankly, as this council should be very aware, nearly all of my alchemists are fully occupied making them.”

  Jehal smiled. “The Red Riders are not some local insurrection, Grand Master. They are attacking the speaker; they are attacking everything she stands for, and by inference everything that you stand for. All I am asking, Grand Master, is that you tell us who is requesting more of your potions than usual. Because you must know that. If you didn’t, you would not be doing your duty, and I know that cannot be the case. When you give us this answer, we shall know where they are getting their supplies.” As if we didn’t know already.

  “They are stealing them from the speaker’s eyries!”

  “All of them, Grand Master? Then you can show us by what records you know this.”

  Jeiros stood there for a second, quivering. Then he bowed his head. “It shall be done.”

  “And soon, Grand Master,” snapped Zafir. �
��Very soon.”

  The council moved on to other things: to the repairs to the eyries, to preparations to receive the remaining kings and queens of the realms, to the impending trial. Jehal watched behind half-closed eyes. In particular he watched King Sirion, who looked as comfortable as a man sitting on a hill full of stinging ants. She’s got to you, hasn’t she? Whatever she offered you, it must have been good. So which way will you jump, when someone comes to kick you off your fence? Most probably King Sirion was thinking the same thing about him. Except that I don’t look like a man riven by indecision. Or do I?

  The council slowly dispersed. Sirion hurried away back to his tower. Usually Zafir did the same, spurning Jehal’s company, but today she lingered. Jehal counted the glances that turned to watch her. Tyrin, her cousin Sakabian, even Prince Tichane. I was hardly even away, and they’re all sniffing after her like she’s a bitch in heat.

  “Walk with me,” she said and offered him her arm. She led him outside into the open air. Scorpions and Adamantine Guardsmen packed the palace walls and towers, and a dozen dragons circled overhead on permanent overwatch. Most of the damage from the Red Riders’ attack had been cleared away but the Speaker’s Tower still bore the scars; the lower floors, including the Chamber of Audience, were still being gutted. Zafir had drafted in almost every craftsman from the City of Dragons in an attempt to repair it in time for the trial.

  “No more hirelings, eh? I warned you that these Red Riders might grow into something you couldn’t control,” said Jehal.

  “They’re no great threat now. They made a terrible noise and a mess, but they have become rash. This must have cost them a third of their number and I have all my dragons back and more. But it’s true that they’ve made me look foolish in front of the council. I’ve had enough of them. I want them gone.” She turned to look at him. “And on the subject of my council, I don’t recall inviting you, Prince Jehal. I seem to remember inviting kings and queens.”