DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

  Putting the banner aside, he unpacked his new standard. The sun’s surface flickered in the candlelight. Unable to resist, Tulkhan ran his hand over the embroidery, marveling at the golden thread, spun so fine it could be sewn.

  Eagerly, he stood the banner upright. The dawn sun blazed forth against an azure sky. In the candlelight something flashed silver. His fingertips brushed the material at the top left-hand corner. Raising the candle, he identified twin moons sewn in silver thread. A rueful smile tugged at his lips. Ever the diplomat, Imoshen had found a way to include the T’En symbols.

  Tulkhan unwrapped the last bundle, revealing his cloak, helmet, and crest. Never again would he wear the red, purple, and black of Gheeaba, colors of violence and death. His new colors promised life and hope. When the rest of the cloaks and banners arrived, he would have a symbolic burning before the gates of Port Sumair. The colors of Gheeaba would turn to ashes while his half-brother watched.

  He heard Lightfoot’s voice outside and lifted the flap, beckoning him. “Come see my new standard. Your men will wear my blue cloaks. In the heat of battle we don’t want soldiers forgetting whose side your men are on.”

  Lightfoot rubbed the material between his fingers. “Fair Isle cloth. Finest there is. Why the newly risen sun?”

  “Because Fair Isle will see a new dawn. I will build on all that was good in the T’En Empire to create an island of culture and learning, an island where a man is valued for his worth, not his birth.” He paused, hearing Imoshen’s mocking voice in his head. What was this vision worth if it excluded half of Fair Isle? Tulkhan amended his words. “A person will be valued for their worth, not birth. Everyone will have a voice. From the landless to the titled, all will be heard and all will be held accountable, even the rulers.”

  Lightfoot stood, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. He let his hand drop. “She should have trusted me to keep my word. She shouldn’t have done this!”

  “Done what?”

  “This, the T’En stigmata!” He gestured to his forehead. “I would have served out my contract. And now, knowing you, I...” He knelt. “I offer my services beyond this contract.”

  “I accept your service,” Tulkhan said, and pulled Lightfoot to his feet.

  “Can you get her to remove the stigmata?”

  He stared at Lightfoot. “Remove what?”

  “You mock me. It is there for all to see. The T’En sign!” Lightfoot touched his forehead, indicating an inverted teardrop scar. “T’Imoshen touched me with the tip of her sixth finger. It burned my skin like a brand. She looked into my eyes and left me naked in her sight. She said if I betrayed you, she would know.”

  Imoshen’s interference angered Tulkhan. “I will tell her in my next letter. Rawset will put it in her own hands.” Lightfoot’s expression hardened. “What now?”

  “You do not see what is before you, General Tulkhan. Next time you speak with Rawset, look for the T’En stigmata on him too.”

  Was it possible that, in his absence, Imoshen had become the dreaded Dhamfeer of legend, manipulative and cunning? Tulkhan opened the message from Jarholfe, but he boasted of his new commission and made improvable accusations against Reothe.

  “Ask your emissary who he truly serves, and why.”

  “Call Rawset. Say nothing of this to him.”

  When Lightfoot left, Tulkhan reread both of Imoshen’s letters, looking for anything that might reveal her hidden plans. Soon Lightfoot returned with Rawset, who was wiping his wispy mustache.

  “Is there some message for me to take back to T’Imoshen?” he asked. “I thought you would want to tell her how to handle the Amiregent. He can’t be allowed to execute our ambassadors. Large New Moon is only—”

  Tulkhan cursed, for Imoshen had not revealed this detail. “Tell me all you know.”

  “The Amiregent arrested our people on trumped-up charges of treason. He demanded a massive payment in gold or he will execute them. If we do not reply, he will execute them anyway.”

  “I see.” Tulkhan selected a sheet of fresh paper. The Amiregent had overstepped himself. He laid down his terms decisively, then waved the paper in the air to dry. “I’ve demanded the release of my ambassadors. I also insist that the Amiregent honor the old alliance and allow the passage of my cavalry and siege machines. I will regard anything less as an act of war.” Tulkhan caught Lightfoot’s nod of approval. “I have asked for an immediate reply.”

  “But... but that would mean a war on two fronts,” Rawset whispered.

  “If need be.”

  Rawset swallowed. “What if the Amiregent doesn’t agree? He threw the others in prison!”

  Tulkhan understood. “I won’t be sending you, Rawset. You are too inexperienced for this.”

  “I’ll take your demands,” Lightfoot said. “I insist, the honor is mine!”

  Tulkhan folded the message and used his new seal. “Take my fastest horses, Lightfoot. How many men will you need?”

  “A dozen soldiers will not protect me if the Amiregent takes offense. I ride alone,” Lightfoot announced.

  “But...” Rawset croaked. “But you could be executed!”

  Lightfoot smiled. “Then the General will have his answer. I serve the General. Who do you serve?”

  “Yes, who do you serve, Rawset?” Tulkhan raised the candles. Flickering light fell across the young man’s freckled face, illuminating his sensitive features and the T’En sign that Tulkhan had mistaken for a birthmark. “You were right, Lightfoot. It is there.”

  “What is? Why do you look at me like that?”

  “No time for lies,” Tulkhan snapped. “There is no dishonor in admitting you bear the T’En stigmata. What True-man can stand against a Dhamfeer? Why did you not tell me that Imoshen forced this service on you?”

  “You appointed me to this position. I am your emissary.”

  “So you say. But who do you really serve?” Lightfoot countered.

  Rawset dropped to one knee. “I serve the T’En Empress who serves Fair Isle. You are her bond-partner and her war general, so I serve you.”

  “No double-talk,” Tulkhan insisted. “She forced this service upon you with the touch of her sixth finger and held you with threats.”

  But Rawset rose, shaking his head. He glanced to Lightfoot, then back to Tulkhan. “No, my general. I serve because I choose to.”

  “But the T’En stigmata?” Tulkhan indicated the blemish on Rawset’s forehead.

  “This?” Rawset shrugged. “It itches. As the conviction came upon me that I must serve T’Imoshen, so did the itching and this blemish.”

  Tulkhan frowned. “There is no coercion involved in your service?”

  Rawset straightened his shoulders. “Since I failed in my priestly studies I have been cast adrift. In Lady Protector T’Imoshen I have found my purpose.”

  Tulkhan shook his head. Itching stigmata—what next?

  Just when he thought he understood the T’En, some new facet arose to confound him.

  “Was it not thus with you, Lightfoot?” Rawset asked.

  “No, it was not! I had already signed my agreement to serve the General when she forced her sign on me and with it my compliance. But I will be free of it soon. The General has promised.”

  Tulkhan felt both men look to him. He had promised to free Lightfoot, but as for Rawset, how could he free a man who wanted to serve?

  “I must pack my traveling kit and select a horse,” Lightfoot announced. “I ride at dawn.”

  When Lightfoot had gone, Rawset turned to Tulkhan. “The Amiregent will have him killed. Why did you let him go?”

  “He claimed the honor.”

  Rawset looked as if he might argue, but he observed the General’s expression, made a quick obeisance, and left.

  Tulkhan sat down stiffly. He had sent men to their deaths before in the full knowledge of what he did, but it did not get any easier. Perhaps he should be grateful for this.

  Imoshen found Reothe reading the journal of his namesak
e, Reothe the Builder, on the fortification of T’Diemn.

  “You may go, Karmel.” Imoshen dismissed the Keeper of the Knowledge, who retreated, her birdlike eyes bright with curiosity.

  Reothe closed the book with a snap. “I must thank you for my new assistant.”

  “The Keeper?” Imoshen was lost.

  “No, Jarholfe. As leader of T’Diemn’s garrison, he has asked me to prepare a report on the city’s readiness to repel attack.”

  Imoshen smiled. “I trust you will be very helpful. By the way, I’ve implemented your suggestion. In time of war no one will be able to get past the lockkeepers without the passwords.” Her smile faded. “I’ve spoken with the engineers and the ship’s captains. General Tulkhan will have three ships with siege machines as soon as they are ready to sail. And I have decided to go to the Amirate to free my people.”

  “Why would the Amiregent listen to you?”

  Imoshen hesitated. He would have to listen because she would use her gifts. “The Amiregent will listen to me.”

  Reothe’s eyes kindled like twin flames. “I will come with you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I can sail across the Inner Sea by the stars. None of this coast-crawling. I can have you there in three days, less if the winds are good. But I have my price.”

  She had foreseen this and had her response ready. “I will not attempt to heal you. I might do more damage, and you need to be able-bodied to captain my ship.”

  “You mistake me. I want to see you work your gifts!”

  “Why?” Imoshen felt drawn to him.

  “It excites me.”

  Her heart skipped a beat and she fought the irrational urge to unburden herself to Reothe, to admit how she missed the intimacy of the mind-touch, how she longed to trust him. She walked to the window, watching the sunlight glint on the beveled glass. “I shall take you as my captain, nothing more.”

  “I am yours to command,” he said, but he mocked her, and she knew it.

  “You must not risk your life,” Wharrd insisted. “I will go. I am your Ghiad.”

  “I have my reasons for going,” Imoshen temporized. She was not about to reveal that she meant to use her gifts on the Amir. “Your task is to maintain order while I am gone. Have the cavalry and remaining siege machines readied. I intend to free our people and negotiate safe passage for Tulkhan’s supplies.”

  “What will I say to the General if you are killed? At least leave his son here.”

  Imoshen repressed a surge of anger. In Ghebite eyes she was no more than a vessel for the bearing of sons. “Ashmyr comes with me.”

  “What will the people of Fair Isle think?” Wharrd asked.

  “I am not deserting my island. The mainland kingdoms need to see that Fair Isle cannot be bullied!”

  “I understand, but heed me at least in this: Don’t go with the rebel leader.”

  “Enough! Before Reothe was the rebel leader he was Fair Isle’s greatest sea captain. He mapped half the mysterious southern land. I think he can sail cross the Pellucid Sea.”

  Wharrd closed his mouth, but he remained unconvinced. Imoshen dismissed him. She had her own reasons for keeping Reothe with her. While he was by her side, he could not be working treason with the Beatific. Fair Isle faced threats on too many fronts for her to contemplate a threat within the capital.

  “I wish you luck, T’Imoshen,” Wharrd said formally.

  “I believe in making my own luck!”

  As Tulkhan rode up to Port Sumair’s gates, the golden crest of his helmet gleamed in the sunlight. His brilliant blue cloak lifted in the dawn breeze, and behind him his army stood rank upon rank, cloaked in his new colors. He grinned, aware that the defenders would be madly sending for Gharavan.

  Escorted by Kornel and the marsh-dweller, the supplies had arrived late the previous evening. He had ordered the new uniforms passed out and an extra ration of food and wine distributed. With Banuld’s voluntary return, the General’s judgment had been proved correct.

  Tulkhan was about to strike a blow at the hearts and minds of the defenders. He wanted Gharavan to see how his army had grown and to despair. The thickest walls in the world could not protect a city if the men did not fight with fire in their bellies. All Ghebite colors had been collected and were stacked high before the gates of Port Sumair, ready to be torched. His trumpeter rode up and down, playing the Ghebite battle signal, reminding Tulkhan that he did not have a call of his own.

  But using the Ghebite signal would irritate Gharavan, just as burning the Ghebite colors would incense him. Hopefully it would drive the little king to lead a sortie. This could be the opening Tulkhan needed to crack the shell of Sumair’s defenses. The second tunnel had collapsed, killing two men, and he had temporarily halted any attempt to mine under Sumair’s walls.

  Soon heads clustered thick as flies on a corpse along the defending walls and gate towers. Tulkhan galloped toward the Ghebite standard. He caught it on the end of his spear and carried it to the heaped Ghebite cloaks and banners. Dropping the banner, he took a flaming torch. His horse sidled, snorting nervously.

  “When I am finished there will be nothing left of Gheeaba but ashes and memories!” he roared. “They’ll say that King Gharavan was the man who lost the Ghebite Empire. Every kingdom that bowed to our father will spit on your memory. Watch your standard burn, Gharavan, King of the Ghebites. King of Nothing!”

  As Tulkhan tossed the burning torch, he felt a savage surge of painful joy. Hungry flames licked over the oil-doused material. The fire roared into life and his men gave a spontaneous cheer.

  Tulkhan hoped his half-brother was spitting with rage. He hoped the useless arrows, which even now fell short of their targets, were an indication of a sortie to come.

  He rode back and forth before his men as they cheered. The flames leaped high on the air. The smell of burning cloth stung his nostrils. He was reminded of the Aayel’s funeral pyre, how Imoshen had let no one but herself touch her great-aunt’s corpse. It had come full circle. He had lost his family and his home to gain Fair Isle.

  His thoughts turned not to the lifeless land itself but to Imoshen, her quick mind, her wry sense of humor. She would understand the value of this display. He longed to have her at his side, sharing the moment with him.

  “How they yell! I’ll lay odds the Ghebite King launches an attack!” Rawset crowed at the General’s side.

  “Gharavan was ever one to act and think later,” Tulkhan said. But this time wiser counsel prevailed, and the defenders of Port Sumair did not retaliate.

  On Reothe’s advice Imoshen had taken two ships and half the Parakhan Guard, led by Crawen. While making the crossing she had interviewed the ambassadors’ servant, a one-armed Ghebite veteran who was not eager to confront the Amiregent again.

  Just at dusk their ship had crept into the deep river estuary that housed the Amiregent’s capital and taken shelter in one of the many secluded inlets. Now the pulleys creaked as the sailors lowered a dinghy.

  Reothe caught her arm, leading her away from the others, his voice low and intense. “If you don’t take me with you, how will I know if you are in danger? If only my gifts were healed!”

  “Tonight I will observe the Amiregent and find his weakness. Rest easy, I will not take any unnecessary risks. Trust me, as I trust you to care for Ashmyr.”

  Before he could protest, she left him, swinging her weight over the side of the ship and scrambling down the rope ladder to the waiting boat. Taking the oars, she threw her back into rowing, pulling away into the darkness as Reothe glowered over the side, holding the lamp high.

  Imoshen soon rounded the bluff, glancing over her shoulder to the Amiregent’s city. Many lights winked from windows, just as the ambassadors’ servant remembered it. She had used every opportunity to skim the surface of his mind, absorbing his description of the Amiregent’s court and the tower where his master and mistress were imprisoned. Her greatest danger was the overuse of her gift. If she overextended
herself, she would drift into a vulnerable stupor of exhaustion.

  Overlooking the port a tower stood silhouetted against the large moon. The tower was thick at the base and at least four stories high. Built within the city walls and situated on the cliff-edged bluff, Tulkhan would have described it as a good last line of defense. She winced, aware that he would not have agreed with her plans.

  Soon she heard the cries of the night seabirds scavenging in the waste from the fish markets. The smell was enough to tell her she was near. This was the greatest city of the Amirate. Many ships were berthed at the wharves.

  Imoshen pulled into a deserted pier and tied up the boat. She climbed the steps of the wharf, dressed in the garments of an Amirate palace servant, with her head covered by the cowl and her face masked from the nose down. As long as she kept her six-fingered hands hidden and her eyes lowered, she could pass unremarked. The place was strangely deserted.

  Even the dockside taverns were closed, their light and laughter hidden behind shutters. Several sailors and their women came out of a bawdy house. Though they passed within touching distance, they deliberately ignored Imoshen. Following the servant’s memory, Imoshen climbed steadily, past the prosperous merchant quarters, which reminded her of the merchant town houses in Northpoint, to the palace itself. With a start she recognized the tower where Cariah’s sister and her bond-partner were imprisoned. Because she had touched the servant’s mind, however briefly, she experienced the man’s fear. Her mouth went dry.

  Imoshen entered the palace through the kitchens. It had been her experience that, with the many comings and goings of a great household, the kitchen’s entrances were the least carefully observed. She made her way through the storerooms and preparation rooms, just another servant, ignored by everyone—including the over-servants, who thought her someone else’s responsibility.

  Stepping into the quiet passages, Imoshen followed the Ghebite servant’s memory to the wing where the Amiregent entertained. It was in these interconnecting rooms that Miryma and her bond-partner had been arrested. Their servant’s memories were vividly laced with dread.