“How did your brother know of the Shenda’ari? I had every slave I suspected of treachery put to the question. None admitted to being your agent. My household was cleared of your influence. Rest assured your line of information has been severed.”
Maarkov took a sip from the mug of wine. It had been watered down and tasted like a dirty creek. He put the mug back on the table with a bit more force than was necessary and bared his teeth at Irhan with a smile.
“You’re not going to scare me with talk of killing. I don’t shy from spilling blood and neither does my brother.”
Irhan smirked. “I am loath to do business with people such as you. Everyone knows who you are, but none will speak of you. Nothing is said of where you came from, or why you hold any power.”
“You should follow that example and stay silent.” Maarkov took another drink of wine, watching Irhan over the rim of his mug. The Rashardian ground his teeth and drummed on the table with his fingernails. His hand crept toward the dagger.
Go for the knife. See where it gets you.
Maarkov wanted it to happen. He would kill the guards in short order and leave Irhan with a wound as a reminder. He couldn’t kill the spice merchant until Maaz had secured the Shadowmen. Perhaps in the past he would have risked his brother’s ire over this, but not now.
Things had changed since Maaz had pulled him from the ground.
“You schect are a barbaric people,” Irhan said. “You care little for courtesy, less for honor. In my time here, I have grown used to it. I have come to appreciate your people in the way the farmer appreciates his pigs. I will ignore your disrespect.”
“Shall we talk business, then?”
Irhan stared at him for a moment. “You and your brother wish to procure the services of the Shenda’ari. They do not work for outsiders. In the unlikely event I can convince them, the payment would be substantial. My own compensation would need to be of greater value.”
“What do you want?”
Irhan studied Maarkov’s face. His fingers crept toward his dagger, but it was an unconscious gesture more than a threat. He made to take a drink of his wine but scowled and returned it to the table when it got close to his face.
“What do you know of Rashardia?”
Maarkov shrugged. “More than some, less than others.”
“Then perhaps you know it has been ruled by the Namadi for generations—the fat, water-rich Lords of the South.”
“You're a Forlani.” Maarkov studied Irhan harder than before, taking in his lean form, his light gray eyes. Perhaps there was more to this man than he had realized. It was rare to find one of the desert screamers so far from the Golden Waste.
Irhan gave Maarkov a considering look. “You do know something of my homeland. Yes, I am Forlani. My clan lived north of the Dark Cities.”
“How did you get here?”
The Forlani rarely left the Golden Waste between Rashardia and the Sevenlands. They were the only ones who could survive in the endless expanse of sand. Maarkov had once heard a Rashardian proverb that said Forlani died when they left the desert.
The proverb was a lie—the slave pens in Sul’Shuram were full of Forlani stock.
Irhan cleared his throat and continued. “My people were destroyed years ago by Namadi slavers. My family was killed, my clan obliterated. As a child, I was dragged to Sul’Shuram in chains. I got lucky, though, and was purchased by a kind man who raised me as his own son. He taught me many things. I saw what the Namadi had done to my people, what they do to my people. This is the thing I want to change. That is my price.”
Maarkov almost laughed at the man. “If you want justice, talk to the gods. You'll get none from my brother, believe me.”
Irhan’s gaze sharpened. “I am no fool, swordsman. I do not come to you with my hands out, begging for justice. The world has no interest in justice. There is only redress.”
“You want revenge for a thousand years of slavery?”
Irhan leaned forward. “I want more than that. It is known that your brother speaks with the Emperor. I have petitioned the Imperial Regent for aid in my cause. He tells me this takes time, but he will not answer the door for my messengers. He has declined invitations to parties. He thinks I am a fool.”
“So you want Maaz to take a message to the Emperor.”
“I want him to convince His Eminence that I wish Imperial support for my bid on the Holy Throne of Sul’Shuram.”
Maarkov sat back, raising his eyebrows. “Ambitious.”
“I offer more in return than the services of the Shenda’ari. As the Divine Instrument, I will be in a position to offer great support to the Galanian Empire. Rashardia is old and wealthy. Only good can come from a relationship between our nations. An ally in the west would surely be a favorable thing to the Emperor.”
“Who knows what's favorable to the Emperor?” Maarkov shook his head. “My brother can’t buy you an army to support a revolution.”
“I do not ask for an army. I ask for legitimacy. I can raise an army to take the Holy Throne, but I need strong allies. With Imperial support, and a single company of soldiers, I can see my goals to their ends.”
“A single company?”
“To train my own units of Forlani soldiers—freed slaves.”
“You can’t hire a mercenary company?”
Irhan smiled. “The Galanian army is the most powerful force in the world. The Empire has been winning wars for years. I wish to know its secrets. I want my own men—loyal men of good blood—to be trained by the best. Mercenaries can be bought.”
Could Maaz secure such a thing for the spice merchant? Maarkov had never listened to his brother’s infrequent conversations with the Emperor. Given the Empire’s current campaign in Moravia, Maarkov suspected it was out of the question.
“I'm no bloody diplomat,” Maarkov said, “but the Emperor is making war in Moravia. All his forces are there, save those holding the conquered territories. I doubt my brother could convince the Emperor to part with an entire company of soldiers.”
Irhan’s eyes tightened. “A small corps of officers, then—some who know the secrets of the army’s tactics and weapons. They will train my own officers, be my military advisers. They will not be expected to fight.”
“And for this, my brother would get the services of your Shadowmen?”
“The Shenda’ari work alone. For this, you will receive the services of a single Shendi. It is their way.”
“One?” Maarkov sniffed. “I don't think my brother will agree to that.”
Irhan spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “This is the way of things. The Shenda’ari have been around for a thousand years. They will not change for the will of a single pink-bellied schect.”
Maarkov ground his teeth. “I know what that bloody word means. Keep using it, and you’ll answer to my blade. I’d love an excuse to carve my way through your slave-soldiers.”
The smile returned to Irhan’s face. “It took a long time to get to where I am today. I have sacrificed many things, killed many people. Those slave-soldiers—every one of them are Namadi. Every slave in my household is Namadi. I make the point to enslave those who once enslaved me. Kill them, I do not care. Kill me, and you will not get what you want. Go ahead—pull your sword and kill them, schect. I will enjoy watching.”
Maarkov stared at the man. Irhan’s eyes were cold, his expression unflinching. Maarkov’s hands itched to take up his blade. After a moment’s consideration, he relaxed his posture.
No need to leave a pile of bodies to add to the rumors.
“I'll take your terms to my brother.” Maarkov stood from the table and gathered his sword.
“How shall I contact you?”
“Don’t.” Maarkov finished buckling on his sword belt and gave the man a cold smile. “Maaz will contact you when he’s ready. I wouldn’t risk seeking him out. It’s like you said—people have a way of dying around him.”
Maarkov grabbed his cloak and left without wai
ting for a reply.
***
“It’s not that General Crammon was angry, Highness,” Lieutenant Hardin said, “just that he would consider it a courtesy if you would pass your concerns through him.” The young officer smiled, attempting to soften the message. “His concern is the chain of command.”
“I see.” Nalia flicked her eyes to Serena, who sat to Hardin’s right. “I don't suppose he enjoys me berating his subordinates. Is that it?”
“That’s not the wording he would have used.” Hardin gave her an uncomfortable smile.
“I don’t answer to General Crammon.” Nalia returned Hardin’s smile with one of her own. “But perhaps I will try to be gentler. That will have to suffice to assuage the general’s concerns for the time being. Once we meet face-to-face, I’m sure we will reach a measure of understanding.”
Hardin was smart enough to hear the dismissal in her tone. He smiled and returned to his food. Nalia flashed her eyes to Serena again.
Serena smiled and touched a hand to Hardin’s arm. “I’m amazed by the size of this camp. There are entire towns smaller than this. I hope the supplies we brought can add to the fight in some small way.”
Hardin smiled, growing pink around the ears. “No doubt they will, Lady Serena.”
“There must be thousands of men in camp,” Serena went on, turning toward the lieutenant. “It must be difficult to see them all fed.”
“Sometimes.” Hardin’s stiff expression grew softer. “Though, that is Major Penton’s concern. I worked for General Crammon.”
“What does a member of the general’s staff do?” Serena leaned closer to Hardin. “You must have important duties.”
Hardin smiled, his face deepening from pink to red. “Nothing so important, my Lady. I was the general’s aide, which is little more than a glorified assistant. I’m there to learn the art of command from the general himself. My next promotion will see me leading a company.”
“The general must trust you if he has made you our liaison in camp.” Serena’s comment sounded innocent, but Nalia listened with great interest for the lieutenant’s reply.
Hardin nodded. “He trusts my loyalty as an Imperial officer. That’s all he needs, my Lady.”
Nalia cleared her throat. “Lieutenant, I’m quite interested in this nomadic tribe we discussed earlier—these Mala’kii.”
Hardin smiled. “I'll answer any questions you have, Highness, but I admit I know little more than the average soldier.”
That must be a lie. As the general’s aide, Hardin would have lurked over the shoulders of the most powerful men in the camp. He would have read messages, penned letters, and managed any number of tasks that required him to know things about the Army’s tactical situation.
Nalia ignored his protest. “Have you seen one of them? Do you know why they attack?”
“I’ve seen a few,” Hardin said, “but as for why they attack—I can’t say, Highness.”
“What does the command know of them?”
Hardin mulled over his answer before speaking. “The Mala'kii are one people, but from what we understand, they’re organized into separate tribes. We don’t know if it’s one tribe doing the raiding, or one faction of tribes, or the entirety of the Mala’kii. The prisoners we’ve taken are tight-lipped about their culture. They’re a hard people.” Disgust flashed over Hardin’s expression before he could school his features to blandness. “One bit out his own tongue when put to the question.”
Impressive.
Serena put her fingers to her lips. “How dreadful! What sort of bloodthirsty men would do such things?”
“Actually,” Hardin said, “the Mala’kii are led by a woman.”
Stunned glances went around the table. Serena gave Nalia a surprised look. Nalia thought she saw a smile in Hardin’s eyes.
Nalia placed her utensils on the table and took a sip of wine. “Interesting. What more do you know of her?”
Hardin gave Nalia a respectful smile. “They call her the Maihdrim. I think it means ‘mother’ in their language.”
“And what do people say of this Maihdrim?”
Hardin cleared his throat and flashed Nalia an apologetic glance. “Dark things, Highness. They say she’s a sorceress.”
Nalia felt a flutter of distaste at the mention of sorcery. Even Ice Shard—the magical sword of Thardish Kings—made Nalia uncomfortable. Such powers should be the purview of gods, not men.
Nalia hid her distaste behind a bland expression. “You mentioned their sorcery before. How does it manifest?”
“It’s nothing direct, Highness. Things just happen around them, things that shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?” The trepidation in Serena’s voice was real.
Hardin was silent for a moment, as if debating whether he should elaborate.
“A few weeks ago, some of General Deverim’s cavalry—the Shundovians—had pursued a raiding party into the hills. Mists rose in their path, and a storm blew in from nowhere. The Mala’kii escaped in the deluge. Once, an entire section of the North Road turned to deep mud. It was during a dry spell. There hadn’t been rain for weeks.”
“And the Mala’kii attacked the road?” Verith said from across the table.
Hardin nodded. “In the perfect place, at the perfect time.”
Nalia leaned forward. “Have any messengers been sent to this Maihdrim?”
“Twice,” Hardin said. “Both times, they were found mutilated. The bodies were displayed out in the hills like… like totems.”
“I see.” Nalia flicked her eyes at Serena and sat back in her chair. Serena leaned close to Lieutenant Hardin and engaged him in conversation, allowing Nalia to focus on her thoughts.
A savage tribe led by a sorceress. Questions spun through Nalia’s mind as she thought of all the factions in play and what held them together. Were these Mala’kii attacking because the supply train presented a fat target, or was there a different reason? If it was plunder they wanted, would they not have more to gain through peaceful trade with the war camp? If what Hardin said was true, the Mala’kii had been trading with the Moravians under a shaky peace for years.
There must be another reason. Perhaps these nomads are allied with the Moravians. Nalia wasn’t sure she believed that. Moravia held no love for sorcery, and she doubted its nobility would work with such people. Unless they see the Empire as a threat so great it warrants putting aside their differences.
Nalia’s instincts told her it was something else. What good was plunder to a tribe of nomads? Would finery not weigh them down, when mobility would surely be favorable to their way of life? Why would such people ride to the aid of the Moravians if they had never been true allies?
The sorcery must be the one thing keeping them from being crushed. The Imperial Army was one hundred thousand strong. There couldn’t be as many Mala’kii warriors in the Haunted Hills. The region wasn’t large enough to support them.
Nalia cursed herself for not reading more about the area before coming here. The only texts she’d been able to get her hands on concerned the Royal history of Moravia, and those hadn’t mentioned the Mala’kii at all. She could have Verith dig for information—the followers’ camp was bound to be full of people who knew of the Mala’kii. It would only be a matter of time before Nalia had answers to her questions.
The Lieutenant said there were prisoners. Nalia wasn’t sure if she could succeed in getting one to talk where the Imperial questioners had failed, but perhaps the soldiers in camp had missed something. Torturers sometimes had too little regard for truth and too much regard for pain.
If they’re led by a woman, perhaps it will take a woman to loosen their jaws.
She would need to know more before she met with the Emperor. She could not go into that meeting uninformed. A plan was beginning to take shape in her mind, but she needed to know more before she moved forward.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ve only just arrived.
Nalia remained silent for t
he rest of the dinner. She pretended not to notice Serena’s flirtations, and feigned disinterest when Captain Yurian and Lieutenant Hardin traded war stories over their goblets. Verith spent the rest of the meal in silence, probably planning ten different ways to find information on the Mala’kii.
Nalia needed a problem to solve, a way to make herself useful. The Mala’kii problem could provide her with such an opportunity. Nalia may not be able to provide better tactical expertise than the Emperor’s generals, but if she could find a diplomatic solution, it would solidify her credibility.
Could I negotiate with a sorceress? The thought made her skin crawl, but the possibilities intrigued her. What might come from a meeting with a woman such as this Maihdrim?
She could be a powerful but unpredictable tool. Nalia’s mother would’ve advised against inviting such uncertainty into her plans—foment chaos and invite your own downfall—but Nalia’s mother wasn’t always right. Something about these Mala’kii continued to haunt Nalia’s thoughts, even as the dishes were collected and Lieutenant Hardin said his goodbyes.
When the tent was empty of all but her retinue, Nalia roused from her thoughts.
“The Mala’kii—I want to know everything.”
***
The rain continued as Maarkov trudged through the city.
Shundov was built on the sunken bones of older structures. Maarkov wasn’t sure a city could sink into the dirt beneath its foundations, but Shundov had been trying for generations. The streets were flooded with the downpour, which herded the foot traffic to the drier paths.
Nothing escapes the rain in this place.
The residents had long ago constructed bridges over the streets in the lower parts of the city. Some thoroughfares had so many bridges crisscrossing above them that the actual streets were more like tunnels. It was through this sodden, gloomy landscape that Maarkov walked, glowering at the ankle-deep water. Maarkov had no need to worry about things like foot-rot, so the water was just uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable was bad enough.
There were few people down in what the locals referred to as the Gutters. Most kept to the bridges during the rainstorms, so only the most desperate found their way below. Maarkov passed a few people huddled in alleyways, coughing into their hands. More than one of the huddled forms were already dead.
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