DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

  Reothe darted across to the trapdoor. “Come, Imoshen.”

  Holding her tender, newly healed hand to her chest, she crawled toward him. Her whole focus was to find a warm place to lie down and sleep. She was beyond hungry.

  “You can’t give up now, Imoshen.”

  “I never give up!”

  He smiled, and she realized he was deliberately baiting her.

  Waiting at the base of the ladder, he looked up. “I’ll steady you.”

  A neutral gray mist settled on her vision, so it was by feel alone that she made her way down. Reothe caught her around the waist, turning her to face him. His features swam before her. He cursed softly, then swung her over his shoulder.

  She gasped indignantly. “Put me down.”

  He did not bother to answer. As he strode off, she gave a moan of discomfort. The floor passed under her, dimly lit, then deeply shadowed. After several twists and turns, Reothe stopped and did something to open a concealed door, then stepped inside a musty passage. He lowered her and Imoshen leaned against a cold stone wall.

  “Just leave me here in the secret passage to sleep.” Her words were as slurred as a drunkard’s.

  “I need you at my side to unite the people against the Cadre.”

  A wave of despair swamped Imoshen. “I used my gifts to kill Jarholfe in front of the Beatific. She will have me stoned!”

  “Engarad’s a pragmatist. We’ll go to her now.”

  He went to lift her again, but Imoshen refused. She did not want to arrive at the Beatific’s door carried like a sack of potatoes.

  Reothe led her on a short trip through the secret passages to his own rooms. “If we are to defeat the Cadre we must look like conquerors.” He turned her toward the bathing room. “Go wash. I’ll get dressed.”

  She would have loved a warm bath, but there was no time. Her skin looked thin and there were dark circles under her eyes. So much had happened since she stepped off the ship. At least Kalleen and Ashmyr were safe. The Cadre would have boasted if they’d found her son.

  “Ready?” Reothe scratched at the door.

  Imoshen came out to find clothes laid on the bed.

  “My boots will be too big. Try the indoor slippers.”

  He went into the bathing room and she heard him curse. “They’ve butchered my hair!”

  Imoshen smiled. Reothe had been raised in the high court of the old empire, where a person dressed and spoke with elegance. Spots floated in her vision. It was an effort to remember to breathe.

  “Ready?” Reothe asked when he returned. She had not even started to change her clothes. “Dreamer!”

  Despite her protests, he tore off the damp underdress and helped her into trousers, shirt, and tabard, all slightly too big. Then he knelt at her feet to draw the laces of the indoor slippers tightly about her ankles. Reothe’s lowered head revealed raw scalp. Imoshen touched his head, longing to heal him completely.

  He looked up, smiling. “There. Bit loose but better than nothing.”

  “Reothe,” Imoshen whispered. “I am not worthy of you.”

  He gave an odd laugh. “Come.”

  It was imperative that they seize the moment. The trip through the secret passages filtered in and out of her awareness as she fought the encroaching fog of exhaustion. She found herself watching Reothe’s back, willing her body to keep moving.

  He paused at an intersection. “This leads straight to the basilica. How do you think I used to meet Engarad?”

  Imoshen wished she had her wits about her to memorize the way. After what seemed an interminable walk, Reothe led her up several narrow flights of stairs, then stopped.

  “I must leave you here to find the Beatific.”

  Imoshen nodded, noting how he opened the hidden door. She waited. When she judged he had gone far enough, she tripped the door’s mechanism and followed him. Imoshen did not want the Beatific and Reothe making bargains without her.

  Though she felt flat and stale without her gift, she had no trouble following Reothe discreetly. She saw him hesitate at a door where a sentry waited, too interested in what was going on inside the room to notice Reothe until it was too late.

  Reothe caught the man around the neck and pulled him backward into an anteroom. When Reothe reappeared, he was holding the man’s sword in his maimed left hand. With a curse, he transferred it to his right hand. He felt its weight and balance thoughtfully before stepping into the Beatific’s room.

  Even from the end of the hall, Imoshen could hear the raised voices. Eager to miss nothing, she hurried after Reothe. There was an untouched food tray on the chair by the door. Ravenous, Imoshen drained the wine, then grabbed the bowl of stew and a freshly baked bun.

  Hugging the bowl to her chest with her tender left hand, she peered through the open door. The room was lit by a branch of candles, which sat on a desk. A roaring fire was built up in the hearth. It was the Beatific’s private sanctum, richly decorated with thick carpets and intricately carved wood panels picked out in gold leaf, yet it looked lived in, with papers strewn on the desk and a discarded overgown draped across a chair.

  Imoshen longed to lie down before the fire and sleep, but Reothe held the sword at the Cadre’s throat. The man backed up until he came to the far wall. They did not notice Imoshen, who hid in the shadows, devouring the stew.

  “You can’t kill him here!” the Beatific protested.

  “Where do you want me to kill him?” Reothe asked.

  The Cadre squeaked.

  “He’s the head of the Ghebite Church and must be dealt with according to the laws of Fair Isle.”

  “Law and order did not help us when the Orb declared Imoshen innocent.”

  The Beatific stepped from behind her desk. “I was working on freeing you.”

  “And Imoshen?”

  The leader of the T’En Church hesitated.

  Reothe spared her a hard glance. “She saved your life, Engarad.”

  “Imoshen killed a True-man with her gift, Reothe.”

  “It was self-defense. And she saved you from the Orb’s power!” His tone scalded. “Hurry, Beatific. My arm grows weary!”

  “I have not signed the decree. In the eyes of the Church, you aren’t rogue and neither is Imoshen—yet.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Engarad. When I entered this room you were the Cadre’s prisoner and he was bullying you into signing away the rights of the Church.” Reothe lifted the sword point until the Cadre strained on tiptoes to avoid it. “We must rid ourselves of this malignant fool. At least the General is a statesman, not a fanatic!”

  “I am ready to die for my beliefs!” the Cadre insisted.

  “Then let me oblige you,” Reothe growled.

  “No, Reothe!” Imoshen crossed the room. She felt the Cadre’s angry glare as she put the empty bowl on the Beatific’s desk. “Tulkhan must be the one who orders the Cadre’s death. Only that will legitimize our position.”

  The Beatific and Reothe exchanged glances.

  “What of the Cadre’s supporters? Jarholfe’s men fought pitched battles in the palace corridors,” the Beatific said. “They displayed the bodies of your Parakhan Guard in the square.”

  Anger boiled through Imoshen, but she would not think of her people’s pointless slaughter.

  The Beatific tilted her head as the basilica’s bells heralded the hour. “Dawn. Our people will strike now. Without a leader, the Ghebites will not stand long.”

  But Imoshen was fast losing track of the conversation. The fire’s heat combined with the food swamped her senses, and the room swayed about her.

  “Where will we imprison the Cadre? On Sard’s Tower?” Reothe asked.

  “No, in the basilica,” Imoshen mumbled. “The Cadre’s greatest crime is against the laws of Fair Isle. He threatened the right of every individual to a fair trial. The Beatific must lay charges against him on behalf of the Church.”

  “True,” the Beatific agreed. “I—”

  But Imoshen heard no more
. The carpet met her face with a suddenness that should have hurt but didn’t.

  The General strode the deck of Peirs’s ship, impatient to be moving. His worst fears were confirmed when he learned that Rawset had never delivered his message.

  Tulkhan gripped the seasoned wood of the ship’s sides. Before him, Sumair rose from the ocean. Its church spires and pointed roofs reflected in the sea, which was as smooth as glass on this cold, still morning.

  He had dressed in borrowed armor and eaten a hot breakfast. But the horrors of the night so narrowly escaped still pressed on him.

  “Everything is ready, General,” Peirs announced.

  “Sound the attack.”

  With no wind to fill the sails, the men had to row. As he watched, the other ships turned their prows toward the island port. Cumbersome with their new siege machinery, the ships bore down on Port Sumair like great beasts of prey, slow but inexorable.

  Tulkhan imagined the feelings of the port’s defenders and relished this moment. All night he had listened to his men’s screams as they fought the narcts. The townsfolk had broken the Sea-wall knowing the beasts would finish what the flood began.

  While they approached the walls, Tulkhan studied the port’s defenses through the farseer, watching the hurried consultations of gathered heads on the parapets and the frantic signaling from tower to tower. Tulkhan closed the farseer with a snap and looked up at the siege machine’s hide, which was made of beaten metal wrapped around braced wood. With this protection they could come abreast of the walls, attack the defenses directly, and throw ladders across to the parapets.

  “They’re surrendering!” Peirs pointed.

  Fierce elation filled Tulkhan. He felt the same rush of conquest as he had known when the Spar fell to him. Then he had shown no mercy, putting everyone to the sword, and his father’s war advisers had respected him for it. In his mind’s eye he saw himself kneeling before his father to receive Generalship over all the Ghebite army. But it wasn’t his father he imagined turning to him from the royal dais this time—it was Imoshen. Disgustedly, she pointed to his hands, covered in the blood of the defenseless women and children he had ordered slain. “Murderer!”

  The people of the Spar had been fighting for their freedom.

  He had quashed their rebellion in his father’s name, but it had been his choice to do murder. Revulsion filled Tulkhan.

  His vision cleared to see Port Sumair glistening in the early-morning sun. A slight breeze had sprung up, rippling the lucid, mirrorlike surface of the water, flapping the pennants on the spires, and drawing his gaze to the flag of surrender.

  “I’ll take the ship alongside,” Peirs announced. “You can accept their surrender on the ramparts.”

  Only a few heartbeats had elapsed from the first sighting of the surrender. Tulkhan’s shattering revelation had taken no time at all. He felt cold and hollow. He was a murderer tens of thousands of times over. While he could not bring back those innocent lives, he could deal differently with the people of Port Sumair.

  The walls drew nearer as the sailors on the siege tower prepared to throw lines across. The gentlest of swells made the ship’s deck lift and fall.

  “How many men do you want at your back?” Peirs asked.

  Tulkhan cast his gaze over the assembled soldiers and indicated a dozen men. “Come with me.”

  Their low, eager voices sounded as they followed him up the ladder. Stepping out into the sunshine, he walked across the plank onto the walls of Port Sumair, victorious once again, but he was a very different man from the brash, hubris-filled youth who had ordered the slaughter of the defenders of the Spar. Tulkhan had looked into the dark night of the soul and discovered he did not like what he found.

  Half a dozen port dignitaries dressed in the heavy brocaded collars and half skirts of Low-land merchants waited anxiously.

  Behind him, Tulkhan heard the chink of the soldiers’ armor and weapons as they took up position. He leapt down onto the walkway. “Where is Gharavan?” Only when he asked this did he realize how much he dreaded confronting his half-brother. He had no choice but to order his death. One death, no more.

  A man stepped forward, gray with fear. He bowed low, as was the Low-land custom. “General Protector of Fair Isle. As Elector of Port Sumair, I want you to know that we did not choose to side with the Ghebite King. He arrived with his mercenaries and took up residence in our town.”

  “Where is he?”

  The man exchanged looks with his companions and lifted his arms in a very Low-land gesture of helplessness. “He escaped sometime last night after the Sea-wall went down.”

  Tulkhan cursed. He should have expected his cowardly half-brother would ensure his own survival. “What of the Ghebite soldiers who were with him?”

  “Those who did not escape with their king are safely locked away, awaiting your pleasure.” The Elector looked relieved to report this. “Execution by drowning is the Lowland way.”

  “I’ll make that decision.”

  “We do have one prisoner you will want to see,” another merchant volunteered eagerly. “Captain Kornel.”

  “Take me to him.”

  But when they escorted him to Kornel’s cell, Tulkhan found the captain had escaped his revenge. Kornel had hung himself by his belt from the cell bars.

  The port officials apologized profusely. They took Kornel’s body down, tied his corpse to a chair in the Elector’s square, and had Tulkhan pronounce sentence. Then, as though the traitor still lived, they suspended Kornel’s body over the wall and lowered it into the sea until he was pronounced drowned.

  Tulkhan went along with all of this, understanding intuitively that it served the purpose of expiating the man’s sins. It was evident his own men took comfort from the procedure. Tulkhan’s hand went to his chest, where the messages from Imoshen had lain, but they had been lost in the flood, along with his grandfather’s sword. He felt the loss keenly.

  Kornel’s bizarre trial and execution over, Tulkhan turned to the Elector. “Now, about the terms of surrender.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Imoshen awoke she knew by the pattern of sunlight on the polished wooden floor that it was mid-afternoon. Ashmyr’s soft crow of laughter struck her as significant. Then it all came back to her and she sat up to find herself in her own chamber. Reothe leaned against the far bedpost, watching Kalleen play with Ashmyr. A wave of relief rolled over Imoshen.

  “You wake at last.” Reothe greeted her with a smile.

  It was so normal, as if the Cadre’s attempted coup had been nothing but a bad dream; then she noticed Reothe’s maimed left hand and she knew they had all barely escaped death. “Kalleen, bring Ashmyr. What’s been happening in T’Diemn?”

  Reothe stepped aside as Kalleen came to the bed. But when Imoshen took her son in her arms and bared her breast, she discovered her milk was gone, burned up by the fever. Ashmyr gave an indignant yell.

  “Never fear,” Kalleen said. “I will feed him.”

  Imoshen blinked back tears. Her arms ached to hold her son. Had she been alone, she would have wept with gratitude to have Ashmyr safely returned. “Where did you hide, Kalleen?”

  “With the guild-master of the silversmiths.” Kalleen tested the warmth of the milk and settled the baby. “Don’t rush, you’ll get wind, my greedy boy.”

  Reothe laughed softly.

  Imoshen had to remind herself that he was still the enemy, but he did not feel like an enemy. “What has happened since I feel asleep this morning?”

  “That was yesterday morning,” Reothe said. “I appointed Drake Shujen of the Parakhan Guard. They scoured the palace and the old city, searching for the Ghebites who had turned against us. I fear many a Ghebite soldier is still in hiding.”

  “It will not serve us if those loyal to Tulkhan are killed, Reothe. And Shujen? I don’t know that term.”

  He gave her a secretive smile. “In Imoshen the First’s time a Shujen led Paragian Guard.”

  “I
don’t remember that part,” Kalleen remarked absently.

  Reothe was quoting from T’Elegos, teasing Imoshen with glimpses of their hidden heritage. “Shujen is an old High T’En word for commander. As for these Ghebites, the Beatific has been trying them by the laws of Fair Isle, which is probably more of a hearing than they would have given us.”

  Imoshen bowed her head in the knowledge that he was right.

  “This morning the Beatific declared the trials over and the gates were opened. The people of T’Diemn poured into the old city by the thousands. The square is packed. They want to see you for themselves.”

  “Let me bathe and eat,” she said, and Reothe gave her the old-empire obeisance reserved for the Empress, then left them. “How is Lord Fairban?”

  Kalleen’s face fell.

  “When?”

  “This morning. He was old. You did all you could. May the Parakletos guide his soul.”

  Imoshen kept her silence. The old saying no longer offered her comfort. She padded across the room to kneel at Kalleen’s side and gaze on her son.

  Tentatively, she stroked the baby’s fine, dark hair. It hurt to see Ashmyr feeding peacefully in Kalleen’s arms, oblivious to her. He stopped sucking long enough to regard her seriously, deigned to smile, then returned to the teat.

  “He is a charmer,” Kalleen remarked.

  Pain twisted inside Imoshen. He was her son. She would die for him, had nearly died protecting him from Jarholfe. She forced herself to banish the resentment.

  Imoshen met Kalleen’s eyes. “You saved my son. I am forever in your debt. I will watch over you and yours all the days of my life.”

  It was a deliberate reversal of the usual custom of assuming responsibility for the life saved.

  Kalleen’s face grew solemn as she took in the significance of this pledge. Tears of sorrow filled her eyes. “I could not let them kill Ashmyr too!”

  Suddenly Imoshen remembered that Wharrd had died protecting her honor. Helplessly, she opened her mouth, but no words came.