“What of the T’En?”
“Only two of the Throwbacks live, and they are at each other’s throats from what my spies tell me.”
Imoshen went cold.
“You have my jewels?” the Amiregent asked. “Good, open the door.”
There was a soft jingle as his companion selected a key. The mechanism clicked as the tumblers fell inside the lock, and the door creaked open. The light faded as the men entered the room. The keys swayed in the lock. Imoshen listened at the open door.
“Wake, old woman. Your time has come!” the Amiregent said.
A soft scuffle followed, and Imoshen imagined them dragging the Amir’s grandmother from her bed.
“Take your hands off me. What manner of man are you?” a querulous voice demanded. “Why do you come at this late hour?”
He laughed. “You should be honored I come in person. General Tulkhan has forced my hand. Wake the boy.”
The old woman uttered a sharp cry of denial and a child’s frightened whimpers urged Imoshen to act, but she held back.
“Remove the cover.” A high-pitched buzz filled the air. “Hush, my jewels,” the Amiregent purred.
“Dreamwasps?” the old woman gasped. “You can’t—”
“By tomorrow evening all of the Amirate will know how you bribed the guard to bring Dreamwasps. You induced them to give you and the boy a fatal dose of their sweet venom, bringing you eternal sleep instead of brilliant dreams.” He laughed softly. “How can I be blamed for your suicide?”
Imoshen felt the old woman’s terror and the little boy’s fearful confusion. She sensed the bright points of anger that were the enraged Dreamwasps. They knew nothing of their role in the larger world, wanting only to vent their fury.
Imoshen stepped into the doorway. By the light of the single torch, she saw the two men and the old woman with a small boy clinging to her. The Amiregent held a delicate cage, his concentration on the contents: four glistening creatures, their iridescent wings flashing.
The other man noticed her and raised the torch. “Evil eyes!”
“Run.” The old woman thrust the boy toward the door. “Run for your life.”
“No, you don’t!” The Amiregent lunged for him.
Imoshen kicked his grasping hand. The force of her strike drove him around in an arc. His arm struck the flaming torch. He screamed, dropping the Dreamwasps. Their cage fell to the stone with a tinkle of breaking glass.
But Imoshen was still moving. The ball of her foot caught the Amiregent’s conspirator in the midsection. He grunted as the torch fell from his hand and rolled under the bed. They were plunged into darkness, except for four whirling points of angry light.
“My jewels!” A flash of light from a passing wasp illuminated the Amiregent’s features as he reared back.
Imoshen dragged the old woman toward the door, colliding with the boy, who had stopped to watch. Shoving them out of the room, Imoshen gripped the handle.
“No!” The conspirator lunged across the floor on his knees. A Dreamwasp landed on his face. Its body flashed with rage as it attacked. His roar changed to a high-pitched scream.
Imoshen slammed the door and spun the keys in the lock. Another scream rent the air, muffled only slightly by the thick walls and solid wood.
“I hope he dreams his death a thousand times before it comes!” the old woman whispered with relish.
“Come,” Imoshen urged. “The guard was told not to investigate, but this might bring him.”
“I doubt it. The Amiregent ruled by fear.”
“Still. I want to speak with you.” Imoshen felt for the stairs. “Link hands.”
Silently, they made their way down the dark steps, while above them sounded guttural male screams and the splintering of furniture.
At the foot of the stairs, they found the guard standing irresolute, a flaming torch in his hand.
“Amir!” He dropped to his knees before the boy and the old woman, then he recognized Imoshen for what she was. With a cry of terror, he drew his sword. “Beware the Accursed!”
“Fool!” the old woman hissed. “Bring me a branch of candles, then saddle some horses. The Usurper is dead. I am Amiregent.”
He lit the candles, then hurried away.
“Will he betray you?” Imoshen asked.
The old woman smiled. “Not if he wants to live. Now, what do you want of me? Are you really T’Imoshen of Fair Isle?”
“I came to seek the lives of my ambassadors.”
“They will be freed. That fool let greed make his decisions. I am not so certain the Ghebites are a spent force.” The child pulled on her hand, whispering that he was hungry. “Hush, boy. Listen and learn. One day you will have to lead your people. We will gather my loyal followers, then enter the palace. By dawn we will have the city. My first official act will be to release your people.”
“They are already free,” Imoshen said.
The old woman’s sharp eyes fixed on her. “Then why are you here?”
“I came to strike a bargain. I need safe passage for my army’s cavalry and siege machines to the borders of the Low-lands.”
“Done.”
Imoshen laughed.
“I’ve no time for anything but straight talking tonight,” the old woman said. “The balance of power shifts, and it must shift in our direction. Tomorrow my grandson will be restored to his rightful place as Amir of the Amirate!”
“I must go. Tomorrow we will renew the old alliance,” Imoshen said. She was weary and she ached to hold Ashmyr and feast on his innocence. Tonight four men had died. She did not have to strike the killing blow for her to be the cause of their deaths.
Across the room, the boy Amir was playing with wood chips, fighting imaginary battles on the cold stone flags. Were they all tools of their destiny?
“Till tomorrow, then,” the new Amiregent said.
When Imoshen returned to the wharves, all was quiet, misleadingly so. Soon the new regent would begin her night of bloodletting to consolidate her power. Imoshen knew that before dawn the streets would ring with the sounds of soldiers loyal to the dead regent making their last stand. She wanted to be gone long before that. The sight of the empty rowboat at its mooring was welcome. Imoshen ran the last steps down to the pier, then hesitated. Where was the sailor who had rowed the boat? Someone grabbed her from behind.
She knew that scent. “Reothe!”
“This time! But it could have been a trap. Have care, Imoshen.” He shook her. “Into the boat.”
Knowing that he was right, she took the bow seat. Reothe bent his back to the oars, his silence oppressive. Imoshen watched his shadowed face.
After they rounded the bluff but before they neared his vessels, he shipped oars. “You lied to me, Imoshen. You said you were only going to discover the Amiregent’s weakness!”
“My ambassadors are safe, and tomorrow when we—”
“Meet the Amiregent we bargain from a better position. I know. But this wasn’t what we agreed!”
Beyond his shoulders, the dark silhouettes of their vessels rose up and down with the swell. Imoshen licked her lips. “General Tulkhan forced my hand. He demanded the release of Fair Isle’s ambassadors; the Amiregent’s response was to order their deaths.”
“So Lightfoot said.”
“There’s more. The Amiregent is dead, and by the time we dock tomorrow, the child Amir’s grandmother will be regent. She has promised to honor the old alliance.”
“Imoshen!”
She waited, but he said nothing more. There was nothing but the sound of the night birds calling over the sea. Weariness overcame her. “They said Fair Isle was ripe for the taking, Reothe. They did not fear us, because the last two T’En were at each other’s throats!” She forced herself to think ahead. “Tomorrow I will renew the old alliance with the Amiregent and then return to T’Diemn. I must get word to the General. The Amiregent can send her fastest rider as a sign of good faith. We’ll be back in T’Diemn by then. But I
want to send support sooner. If the people of Sumair know the siege machines are coming, they might try to break the siege. How long will it take to send the ships from T’Diemn, then drive the wagons across the Amirate to the Low-lands?”
“These things always take longer than you expect,” Reothe answered at last. “Why not send Lightfoot with my second ship straight up the coast to the blockade at Port Sumair?”
“Good. With luck Tulkhan will be planning Gharavan’s execution a few days from now!”
Suddenly Reothe dropped to his knees and gripped her shoulders. The boat rocked. “You’re lucky it isn’t your execution.”
Imoshen clutched the sides of the boat and said nothing.
“You could have been killed!” Reothe’s cruel grasp softened as he pulled her closer. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then pulled back. “If you face death again, I want to be by your side.”
Imoshen’s breath caught in her throat. “You have no right to make that demand, and I make no promises.”
He released her. “No, you promise me nothing.”
“I did what needed to be done.”
“You cripple my gifts. Then you leave me to mind your child while you risk your life. You have a hard head and a hard heart, Imoshen.”
She looked away. Let Reothe believe her heartless.
He resumed the seat, taking the oars but not dipping them into the sea. “I wish I had been there to see you exercise your powers!”
She thought of the screaming men, the angry Dreamwasps, and she shuddered. “Luck was with me. I hardly used my gifts at all.” Her voice caught. “Take me to the ship. I killed four men tonight.”
“You did not kill; death’s shadow walked by your side. Our ambassadors’ lives for theirs. It is a fair bargain.”
But she shook her head and would not speak again.
Imoshen sealed the message with the print of her sixth finger and handed it to Lightfoot, who was about to sail up the coast to join the blockade of Port Sumair. “For General Tulkhan.”
Lightfoot tucked it inside his jerkin, then hesitated. “I owe you my life.”
“There is no obligation.” Imoshen read his face. “Speak your mind.”
“We mercenaries have a saying that service given freely is more enduring than service bought by fear or wealth.”
“The T’En have a similar saying,” Imoshen replied. The rhythmic chant of Amirate wharf workers unloading cargo came through the open cabin window.
“Would you have me beg?” Lightfoot ground out.
Imoshen stared blankly at him.
“I cannot live enslaved by your stigmata!” He gestured to his forehead.
Then she recalled touching him with her sixth finger. She had not known Lightfoot would prove loyal beyond his mercenary contract. She was not even sure if her touch had done more than mark his skin.
“Forgive me. I was not mocking you. Much has happened since that night.” She called on her healing gift and brushed the pad of her thumb across the mark on his forehead. The inverted teardrop scar was gone, as was the frown line that had marked his forehead. “There, you are your own man.”
With evident relief he gave the mercenary salute. “I swear to serve you and your war general, T’En Empress.”
“I accept,” Imoshen said, thinking it was strange: Removing her sign had made him more her servant.
Tulkhan recognized neither the horse nor the rider who wore the colors of the Amirate. He expected bad news, but the man offered obeisance and presented him with a message sealed with the imprint of Imoshen’s sixth finger.
Curious, Tulkhan broke the seal. He gave a bark of laughter. By luck Imoshen had been in the Amirate ready to negotiate a new alliance when his messenger arrived. “The Amiregent grants our cavalry and siege machines safe passage. Port Sumair is ours!”
The men nearest him cheered, and the cry went up through the encampment.
“Send in Banuld,” Tulkhan told Kornel.
By the time the marsh-dweller arrived, every man in the camp knew the Amirate had agreed to honor the old alliance with Fair Isle.
Tulkhan threaded several gold beads onto a leather thong. “Kornel, tell Banuld-Chi that I have valued his service. And that he is free to go.”
“You’ve already paid him,” Kornel muttered.
“He has proved his loyalty. Tell him what I said.” Tulkhan came to his feet and grasped the marsh-dweller’s arm.
Kornel translated with bad grace.
When they had gone, Tulkhan looked up to see Rawset.
“Do you wish me to carry a message to T’Imoshen?”
Tulkhan shook his head. “Not until Port Sumair is mine. Share a mug of Vorsch. We’ll drink to Lightfoot’s safe return!”
On her return to T’Diemn, Imoshen had not expected to be greeted with pomp and display, but neither had she expected silence, shuttered doors and windows. It reminded her of the climate of fear that hung over the Amirate, and she grew more uneasy with every passing moment.
Anxious to give Wharrd the good news, Imoshen did not bother to send servants on ahead but set off in the growing dusk with Reothe, Miryma, and Shacolm.
Changing Ashmyr’s basket to the other hip, she left the lower city behind and crossed the fortified bridge to enter the old T’Diemn. Beyond the lanes, the formal square was empty. No servants clustered on the steps of the palace awaiting instructions, but, then, they were not expecting her.
Imoshen entered the palace and rang for a servant. “I want to see Lord Fairban and Lord Commander Wharrd. Have the kitchen send up a festive meal. I will await them in the Jade Room.” The man hurried off and Imoshen turned to the others. “Dine with me. Your safe return and the honoring of the old alliance will be celebrated throughout Fair Isle, but for tonight let us have an intimate celebration.”
Once inside the room, Imoshen placed the sleeping baby’s basket in a quiet corner and lit the candles, while Miryma and Shacolm moved the low couches for an intimate old-empire meal.
“Something feels wrong, Imoshen,” Reothe said softly.
“Your gifts?”
“I don’t need the gifts to sense the tension. Don’t you feel it?”
Imoshen pinched out the taper. “Wharrd will know what’s going on.”
Suddenly the door flew open. Kalleen stood there, grief distorting her features. “Wharrd died this morning!”
Imoshen reached for Reothe. “How can this be?”
“You would follow the Empress’s example. You would flaunt your lover!” Kalleen pointed to Reothe. “The Ghebites don’t understand. They think you’ve dishonored their general. Wharrd died bound by his warrior code! A curse on the Gheeakhan! This very morning I held him in my arms and begged him to live long enough for you to return, but—”
“Miryma?” Lord Fairban thrust the door open. He had aged since Cariah’s death, but his face lit up at the sight of his youngest daughter. “When they told me of your plight, I lost all hope!”
“Father!” She laughed and ran across the room to throw her arms around him. “Imoshen saved us.”
“Blessed be the Empress,” Lord Fairban whispered in High T’En, then put his daughter aside, turning to Imoshen. “But evil has been at work in T’Diemn. The—”
Shuddering on its hinges, the door was flung open a third time. Imoshen froze as a dozen fully armed Ghebites entered the room, Jarholfe as their lead. “Arrest the woman and her Dhamfeer lover!”
Chapter Thirteen
Jarholfe gestured to Reothe contemptuously. “Don’t hesitate to take the male. His gifts are crippled and he has no strength in his left side.”
The T’Diemn garrison guards spread out, circling Reothe, who moved to keep the wall at his back.
“Stop this!” Lord Fairban ordered, but they ignored him.
Sick disbelief filled Imoshen. She turned to Kalleen. This was what she had come to warn them about but had been too bound up in her grief to explain.
“Betrayer, get out of my sight!” Imo
shen grabbed Kalleen and shook her, but in the instant before she pushed the young woman aside, she whispered, “Take Ashmyr. He’s by the door. If you bear me any love, get him to safety.”
Off balance from Imoshen’s push, Kalleen tripped, falling between two low couches. Ghebites stepped over her.
Imoshen spun to see Reothe strike out, a slender jade statuette his weapon. One man’s sword went flying, another fell with a broken wrist. As Reothe ducked to grab the fallen sword, Jarholfe pounced, brutally pinning his arms behind his back.
From behind the strands of disheveled silver hair, the last T’En warrior glared up at his captors. One of them struck the back of Reothe’s head and he collapsed. The impact made Imoshen’s head ache in sympathy. Nausea threatened to swamp her.
“Now the Dhamfeer bitch!” Jarholfe ordered. As they turned on Imoshen, she recognized the Ghebite priest at Jarholfe’s side. The Cadre’s eyes gleamed with malevolent satisfaction, and she realized he was putting words in Jarholfe’s mouth.
“Not T’Imoshen!” Miryma’s cry pierced Imoshen’s abstraction. “She saved us. She has organized safe passage for siege machines. She—”
Jarholfe’s slap sent her flying. “Get your woman out of here, Shacolm, or I must question your loyalty too!”
Miryma’s bond-partner swept up her limp body and, casting Imoshen one swift glance, slipped away quietly.
“You call this loyalty, Jarholfe?” Imoshen demanded icily. “Who appointed you leader of T’Diemn’s garrison?”
“Don’t listen to her, she twists everything with her Dhamfeer cunning!” the Cadre hissed.
Imoshen faced the circle of men. They had served her on the road from Northpoint, and now they hesitated. Respect for authority was deeply ingrained.
“I forgive your actions so far because you have been misled,” Imoshen said. “But from this moment forward, I will forgive nothing. Step aside. I must speak with your commander.”
They glanced at one another. They had seen her restore a blind man’s sight. Respect, or perhaps self-preservation, overcame the conflict of orders.
DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 20