War in Tethyr

by Victor Milán

  At the table’s left end the crier stood forward. He wore a tabard sporting the traditional device of lion, gules, rampant on field of gold. No one knew why this was traditional, inasmuch as Zazesspur’s emblem was a blue cockatrice on a light-green field. No one knew where that came from, either, cockatrices being exceedingly rare in Tethyr, even since the monarchy’s collapse. Some savants theorized that was the reason for the symbol’s adoption, that the appearance of such a rarity as a cockatrice in Zazesspur might have been deemed worthy of commemoration. Actually, nobody cared anymore.

  “Oyez, oyez!” the crier cried. “Gentles of Zazesspur, attend! The city council is now in session: let all observe the gravest punctilio!”

  The groundlings cranked their hubbub down a notch. Despite the crier’s most ferocious glare they refused to subside further. After an exasperated moment, he puffed himself up and blared, “The prisoner, Zaranda Star, may approach the council.”

  Zaranda marched in, flanked by a squad of city police in shiny black carapaces. She wore a fresh white gown. Her hands were manacled before her by discreet steel.

  The crowd stirred. The Hairheads jeered and shook their fists. The policemen escorted her to the council table and withdrew to the sidelines.

  The crier struck the floor three times with the head-high ceremonial mace he carried. “Spectators must remain silent, or be thrust forth!”

  The Marquise Enzo leaned forward. He had a balding head, fuzzy eyebrows, and spectacles perched before perpetually blinking eyes. He occupied the table’s middle seat, and was consequently chairman for the day.

  “Zaranda Star,” he said, steepling fingers before his small chin, “you have much to answer for.”

  “Of what do I stand accused?” she asked. Her voice, though calm, filled the hall.

  “Nothing, nothing. Did you not hear? You’re not on trial.”

  “Then what am I doing here?”

  “Answering questions, only.”

  She held up fettered hands.

  “Your status remains in doubt,” Baron Zam said waspishly. “Your creation of your own private army is notorious.”

  “And keeping me in irons will prevent me from threatening you with this supposed army?” she asked. Some of the audience laughed.

  Jinjivar the Sorcerer leaned forward. His turban wobbled alarmingly, threatening to overbalance him. “Is it true,” he asked, “that upon being taken into the custody of Duke Hembreon, you gave your parole to employ no magic in any attempt to escape or otherwise alter the circumstances of your captivity?”

  “I did.”

  “And do you now reaffirm the oaths you swore to that effect?”

  “I do. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “So now,” the marquis said, eyebrows drawn together in annoyance at the others’ horning in, “account for yourself.”

  She shook back her hair and laughed. The hall fell silent. “That’s rather a broad assignment. Would you care to be more specific?”

  Burly, black-bearded Hafzul Gorbon slammed a palm on the tabletop. “Impertinence!” He glared around at his fellows. “What more do we have to hear? Let’s have her head off and go back to our affairs.”

  Ravenak’s contingent cheered. “I see why I’m not on trial,” Zaranda said. “I appear already to have been found guilty and sentenced to death, besides.”

  Hembreon leaned forward. “Zaranda Star, no decision has been made by this council regarding you. I give you my word.”

  “Very well,” she said. “You want an account of what I’ve been doing. You shall have it. Many say that Tethyr needs a strong central government. That may be so; certainly the land has fallen on hard times since the monarchy fell.

  “Few will deny that the justification for a government’s existence is to protect the persons and property of its citizens. Yet when I returned to Tethyr a year ago I found no shortage of governments. Rather I found them everywhere. But I found precious little protection. Rather, as often as not, the self-proclaimed governments were the most rapacious predators.”

  Malhalvadon Stringfellow jumped up onto his chair. “Must we sit and listen to these slanders?”

  “You’re welcome to stand,” said Anakul in his unctuous voice. “But, pray, be quiet. It is the deponent’s time to speak. You’ll only protract matters needlessly if you continue to disrupt these proceedings.”

  Grumbling, the halfling sat back down and Zaranda continued. “My caravan was illegally impounded when I attempted to bring it into Zazesspur. I was left nearly destitute. Under such circumstances, if one doesn’t wish to become a beggar or go into crime or government, one must find a service that people need and supply it.”

  She turned to the colorful multitudes ranked around the huge hall.

  “I must insist that the defen—that is, the deponent—face the council—” Enzo said.

  Zaranda ignored him. “The people of Tethyr had neither safety nor security. Rivers and roads were blockaded as effectively as by an invading army. I could not set matters right myself; I had no army sufficient to such a task, nor means of raising one. Nor am I sure that way is best, for had I the force to impose order, would I not also possess the means of imposing in other ways, as the robbers who call themselves nobles do?”

  “What is all this?” Baron Zam demanded. “What of your sedition? What of your raising the countryside in rebellion?”

  “Sedition against whom?” Zaranda asked. “Rebellion against whom? Not the ‘duly constituted government’ of Tethyr—because it neglects to exist.

  “All I have done is attempt to provide the people with the means of defending themselves. That’s the only way I know to achieve real security. Seldom in my life have I known safety that I did not provide myself. Who, after all, will care for you better than you yourselves?”

  She turned back to face the council and raised bound hands. “The people of Tethyr have responded. Many of them, it seemed, desired what I and my associates had to offer. There is no ‘private army.’ There is only a small cadre, my friends and employees, far too minute to threaten a mighty walled city such as Zazesspur. And there are common folk in the farms and villages and out upon the roads, well trained, armed, and organized to protect themselves, but lacking the means to sustain an aggressive campaign.

  “And there you have it, Lady Korun, gentlemen. The entirety of my plan, and of my intentions: to help the people of Tethyr free themselves from fear.”

  Shouts and applause burst from the crowd. Hisses and angry shouts answered from council claques and Hairheads. The crier pounded the butt of his mace on the floor and screamed for order until his face went red.

  Baron Hardisty stepped forward, clapping his hands. The din subsided, until the only sound to be heard in all the hall was the soft fall of his slippered feet and his solitary applause.

  “Very impressive, Countess Morninggold. Your passion is quite commendable. And also sad—inasmuch as it demonstrates that you have become a tool of the forces of anarchy that have so blighted our land. You speak of the impossibility of treason against the nonexistent government of Tethyr, and certainly this is true. But in spreading arms and broadcasting resistance among the populace, you seriously impede the establishment of such just and necessary government, and so, in a real sense, betray the people of Tethyr, whom you claim to help.”

  “Order and government are not one and the same,” Zaranda said.

  “You will address the lord of the city as ‘my lord,’ ” Enzo instructed.

  Hardisty waved a hand, dispensing of formality. “The Countess Morninggold has told of the patchwork of governments, self-proclaimed nobles, she encountered on her return to Tethyr. Does this not eloquently bespeak the need for the reunification of the country, under a central government strong enough to suppress such petty tyrannies?”

  That provoked dark looks and mutters from the council table, since those self-proclaimed nobles had been comfortable sources of income for no few of the people who sat at it.
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br />   “I don’t doubt a central government could suppress petty tyrannies,” Zaranda replied. “But would that necessarily be an improvement? With all respect, isn’t it as likely to produce one big tyranny?”

  “Zaranda, Zaranda.” Hardisty shook his head sadly. “Such cynicism ill becomes you. I wonder if your soul is altogether free of the taint of evil.”

  “In my life, I have done much that I regret,” Zaranda said, “but little I’m ashamed of. Can everyone present claim as much?”

  “Insolence!” hissed Baron Zam. “Intolerable.”

  “Let’s put an end to this farce,” demanded Hafzul Gorbon, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull’s.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” said Lady Korun, sprawled at apparent ease in her chair. “Clearly the woman’s a subversive. Do we really need to hear more of her babbling?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the council, of Zazesspur—of all of Tethyr,” Hardisty said, turning to address the onlookers, “hear me. Our land has come to a fork in its road. Before you lie two paths: my way, which leads through monarchy to order; hers, which leads to anarchy and ultimately dissolution. The time has come to choose. I trust in you—in all of you—to choose wisely. I believe you will turn away from the false promises of ‘freedom’ that the countess and her ilk hold out, and give yourselves into the care of those who have your interests at heart, and know how best to serve those interests.”

  “Those who trade freedom for security in the end get neither,” Zaranda said ringingly. “Who honors promises made to slaves?”

  Armenides rose from the midst of his white-robed acolytes. “Sir Chairman, if I might address the council?”

  The Marquis Enzo glanced at Hardisty. “Very well, Your Eminence.”

  “The countess speaks with the voice of the past. We speak with the voice of the future. What need have the people of Tethyr for arms or the skill of arms? Such can only increase the burden on their souls. I beg of you, good sirs and ladies, disarm these poor people she has deluded before they do harm to others or themselves.”

  “Listen to what he’s saying!” Zaranda challenged the crowd. “What does this government intend for Tethyr that it need fear a people enabled to defend themselves?”

  Enzo pounded the table and shouted for order. The crier grew almost apoplectic. City policemen seized Zaranda by the arms and hustled her from the hall.

  “What are they planning to do,” she cried, “that they know you’ll resist if you can?”

  The great bronze doors slammed shut on her words.

  Through her barred window, Zaranda watched the blue planet Chandos, so near in its circuit about the sun that it showed not just a disk but a hint of roundness, rise up out of the east. Scarcely had it mounted the sky than the faint light of Anadia began to well up from the horizon. She thought of her observatory tower back home in Morninggold, wondered if she would ever watch the stars and playful planets from it again.

  Blinking to keep back the tears, she said, “You seem concerned, Your Grace.”

  Seated at the table, the most recent of her steady stream of visitors raised his head sharply from his hand, like a man who’s caught himself dozing off. “It is nothing, Zaranda Star. Or rather … but I cannot allow personal considerations to cloud my vision of duty to city and country.”

  “Which is to say the lord of the city pays too close attention to your daughter.”

  “Enough!” snapped Duke Hembreon, jumping to his feet with alacrity a younger man might envy. “I have taken pains to see that you are treated well, but you are still a prisoner. Do not presume too greatly upon my goodwill.”

  “Still a prisoner,” Zaranda said, “and still charged with nothing.”

  Hembreon frowned. “As of today charges were formally levied against you in council. I have brought a bill of particulars.” He held up a scroll tied with a purple ribbon.

  “And why was I not present to answer those charges, as Zazesspurian law requires? I certainly didn’t have any conflicting appointments.”

  He failed to meet her eye. “There were special considerations—extraordinary circumstances.…”

  “Just keep talking that way,” Zaranda said mock-approvingly. “We’ll make a chaotic of you yet.”

  The old man’s spine stiffened. “These are trying times. It is always easy to see which is the path of righteousness when one isn’t actually called upon to make the choice.”

  “I appreciate that. But are you certain the path you want is the one marked, ‘His Royal Majesty, Faneuil I’?”

  “He stands for the rule of law. He stands for what Tethyr needs.”

  “Does he? I say he’s unleashed disorder on Zazesspur. And it’s due to get worse.”

  “On what do you base your reasoning, young woman?” He tried to sound sternly dismissive. He didn’t quite make it.

  Got you, you thin-lipped old pillar of rectitude, she thought. Doubt was her ally. “He wants you to go on and declare him king. Yet various of your fellow councilors already have second thoughts about the wisdom of acclaiming him lord of Zazesspur. He’ll perceive that, or Armenides will. He needs some new crisis to catapult him onto the throne, and knows it.”

  “ ‘Crisis’?” The duke was too polite to sneer.

  “Crisis. I think Zazesspur’s due for a dose of civil disorder, sooner rather than later. Something that will make the people cry out for a strong hand to restore order.” She tipped her head to the side and tapped one finger against her cheek. “I think he’ll use Ravenak’s ruffians. They’re like boulders balanced precariously on the very brink of a precipice, wanting only the tiniest zephyr to bring the whole mountainside crashing down.”

  “Preposterous!”

  “You think so? Try this thought on for size: did anyone encounter a single darkling on Zazesspur’s streets before Hardisty began his climb?”

  “Woman, I will not stand to hear our new lord’s name besmirched. Good evening. Officer of the watch, I wish to be let out at once!”

  Immediately bolts began to slide back on the far side of the door. “All I ask,” Zaranda said, “is that you remember what I told you.”

  He gave her a lambent-eyed look of disgust and went out.

  Beneath her the bed turned to viscous blackness; without chance to react, she was swallowed up. And then she was falling, endlessly, endlessly—but not endlessly enough. Below her, vanishingly small but somehow clear, a shadowed shape writhed, greater black against blackness.

  No matter how you fight it, no matter what you do, you will come to Me, that hated voice hissed. Why struggle against the inevitable? You might spare yourself no little pain.

  Still she fell. As she fell, she seemed to glimpse scenes flashing past: a seething caldron whose contents she did not dare examine; foul creatures opening a grate that led to the streets from the sewers beneath the city; a procession of wailing children, yoked together neck to neck, shuffling forward toward a black galley lolling at anchor in some vast flooded cavern.… And always the blackness below, yearning for her, reaching for her with tentacles of black.…

  She was dashed into consciousness as if by a plunge into icy water. For a moment she lay gasping, so coated in sweat that she seemed in imminent danger of slipping off the bed onto the floor. Then her ears resolved the sounds that had brought her out of sleep.

  Bells. And a faint murmur, as of many distant voices raised in anger.

  She rose and walked to the window. No planets were visible, and the moon and its bright attendants were absent. But by pressing her face hard against one wall and staring as far to one side of the window as she could, she could see orange light staining the sky, as if Selune were trying to rise in the south.

  Zazesspur was burning.

  Zaranda sat back onto the sill. The morning sun lay warm on her back, despite being filtered by overcast. The smell of rain, past and future, came through the open window.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “about your shop, and most of all, about your father.”
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  Simonne Soiltender—“White Eyebrow” had been her father’s nickname—sat on Zaranda’s stool looking very small. She wore a leather jerkin over a saffron blouse and sand-colored hose. Her voluminous black hair was done up in a bun and covered by a bandanna whose gaiety clashed with her demeanor.

  “You of all folk are the last who owe apology,” she said. She was turning her toothed-wheel holy sign of Gond over and over in strong, capable fingers. It was finely milled of steel, which the god held the noblest of metals, preferring its utility to the showiness of silver, platinum, or gold. “You warned him time and again.”

  “And yet I might have helped precipitate his murder, by facing down those ravers in his shop last year.”

  “Just as likely you forestalled it. Such folk want victims, not confrontation; it’s weakness that arouses their bloodlust. My father’s confirmed passivity marked him as a target. Once we mustered opposition, ill-armed and untrained as it was, the rioters fell back smartly enough.”

  She let the medallion drop and buried her face in her hands. Tears leaked between the fingers. “Oh, Father, Father. If only I’d had the strength to disobey you before it was too late!”

  Zaranda came to her and laid an arm around shaking shoulders. “Grieve, for you must. But don’t burden your soul with regrets. You won’t serve your father’s memory by crippling yourself with might-have-beens.”

  The priestess clung to Zaranda, and her slight but sturdy frame was racked by great, silent sobs. Zaranda gently stroked her friend’s head. Her blue-gray eyes leaked a few tears of their own, but silently; she would do her grieving for White Eyebrow later, if she were still alive.