For two days her caravan skirted the basin of Amen. She pursued a long but safe route, hugging the Shambles as she made her way toward Harwen. At night her soldiers made camp with the horses huddled between the tents. Merit and the soldiers lit no fires, ate dried meats, and drank tepid cups of amber. They woke and rode out again. By noontime on the third day, the sun was hot and the sweat on Merit’s neck and back was mixing with the dust, making her itch. Her caravan had not stopped since morning meal, riding hard through the desert to reach Harkana. Now the soldiers were coated in a mud made of road dirt and sweat, the calash groaning. She needed air. Pushing open the tarp, she called Sevin Mosi, her captain, and ordered the caravan halted. The wheels ground to a stop. Merit stepped out, her waiting women, Ahti and Samia, following as she went a few paces up the trail. Ahti moved to dab the sweat from Merit’s brow, but she brushed the servant off. “It’s no use,” she told the girl. “The dust will be back in a moment, and the sweat too.”
A little hiss of wind preceded the thunk of metal striking rock. A long black dart shattered against the stones, then another, its loud whistle dying into something soft. Ahti was clutching the shaft of a blackwood dart that had pierced her through the neck. Already her limbs were going slack, her body slumping to the ground. Merit remained calm, but Samia gave a little strangled noise of mute horror. Then battle cries, shouting.
A dart sailed past Merit’s ear, nipping the flesh. They came from behind, the sun at their backs, their skin mottled in ash. Men with slings and blowguns dashed through the caravan. Darts flew through the air, and two of the four geldings fell. A cold hand gripped Merit’s shoulder. She reached for her mother’s short sword, but the blade was gone, lost in the chaos. She turned, seeing a warrior in chalk-white desert robes slipping past her in the dust. He stared at her with strange golden eyes, put one hand on her shoulder, and the other on his lips—shhh—and disappeared. Spooked. Like a ghost in the darkness.
“Did you see that?” Merit said. “Did you see him?”
“Where?” Sevin shouted, and without warning he was there, holding Samia with one hand and his sword with the second. He either had not seen the outlander or had not reached him in time. Merit had seen the man and she recognized his strange golden eyes. The Hykso were traders and slavers from the Salt Barrens. While they shared much in common with the San, they were a more civilized tribe. They valued life, if they thought it could fetch a price.
The dull clinking of swords rattled the air. Two horses remained, their bodies shielded by a ring of Harkans.
“You take one, Sevin, and I will take the other. The soldiers will stay with Samia. We’ll ride hard for the Hornring. When we are safe within the walls, I’ll send the army to fetch the others.” A hail of stones struck the calash; a blackwood dart scraped the nearest horse. The creature turned violently, knocking two soldiers to their knees. A second dart whistled past the horse’s head. They didn’t have long. Merit grasped the horse’s reins and moved to pull herself up, but Sevin blocked her with a cautioning hand. “The horses are already at their limit. This one here,” he said, indicating one good-sized gelding with foam on his flanks, “he won’t make it. He’s done. We’ll be stuck on foot and forced to walk.” Merit cursed, her fingers turning white as they tightened around the reins. Risk the road or wait here while the outlanders wore them down—neither was an acceptable option.
Before she could consider the matter further, a piercing whistle broke the silence. From high on the cliff the hiss of darts sliced through the air, howling war cries echoing from all sides. Merit dropped the horse’s reins, but she would not hide from her enemy. She stood tall, commanding the soldiers. A blackwood dart struck the man standing in front of her, the shaft, thick as her thumb, broke through his chest, through armor and flesh. The tip sprang from his back, shedding blood on her blue dress. The wounded soldier collapsed, but she pushed his body aside, knocking him into Sevin. Beside her, Samia was screaming, the blood pounded in Merit’s ears but she stayed calm, trying to find the archers’ location. The outlanders were firing high, their projectiles often sailing over her men’s heads. What are they doing? Too late, she realized their true target: the horses. “Raise shields!” she cried, but the darts and stones were already arcing over the soldiers’ heads and finding their targets. The horses collapsed. The raiders had done their work: Merit’s company, what was left of it, was trapped.
As the cries of the Hykso faded into the hills, as the soldiers fanned out to form a protective ring, Merit remained standing, her guards clustered around her. She searched for her mother’s short sword, spotted it on a pierced seat cushion, and pulled it forth. She sent out a soldier to test the perimeter, to see if the Hykso were watching, if they were truly trapped, but when her man stepped beyond the ring the Hykso leapt from behind the rocks, hurtling spears and loosing darts. The soldier fell dead on the ground, a black stave protruding from his chest. They would not escape on foot.
“Why?” Samia called from behind Merit. “Why have they trapped us like this?”
“Because,” Sevin spat, “they’re not savages. The Hykso are traders, hunters. They’re a careful folk. They’ll wait till we’re out of water, exhausted and wild with thirst. Then—”
“Enough.” Merit brushed Sevin away as she surveyed the mess of broken armor and dead horses. Sevin was right, but he did not have all of the answers. It did not explain why the ash-skinned man had not killed her. Clearly he had been close enough to cut her throat—she could still feel the cool touch of his hand on her shoulder.
Sevin ordered his men to raise tents. The outlanders had retreated from sight, but she could hear their cries, voices that imitated animal sounds: a hawk’s screech, a coyote’s snarl. The outlanders were letting them know they were close, they were watching, waiting to attack.
Merit cursed. She should not have left Feren without Dagrun’s soldiers, his horses, and their fortified armor. She needed a larger company, an army for an escort, she was queen regent, but she had only a small entourage. In Rifka, she’d let her pride interfere with her judgment and now she was suffering because of it.
With his men standing at attention, or patrolling, Sevin and a few others set camp. He ordered the dead girl dragged from the wreckage. Through the bustle, Merit watched the men wrap Ahti in the lap blanket and bury her in the sand. Samia stood, sobbing quietly, too afraid to make a noise. In a few days, maybe less, wolves and wild dogs would come to dig for Ahti’s corpse, and vultures would pick her bones—the second death, if the Hykso did not unearth her first. It was a good reminder, Merit thought, of all that there was to lose.
She sat down next to her captain, watched him stare into the fire as he called out orders to his men. His face was worn, eyes red. I should have ridden out while the last two horses stood. Damn you, Sevin, if you’ve cost me my life. When he was finished with his men Sevin turned to Merit. “What do you think those outlanders are doing on the Feren border?”
“Does it matter?” she said. “Start thinking of how you’ll sneak me out of here.” Merit left the fire. The daylight faded. They spent the night huddled in tents and the morning crowded around the fire. Merit found Sevin and ordered her captain to send messengers: one toward Harkana, a second toward Feren. “Perhaps a lone soldier can elude the Hykso,” she said, her eyes tracing the distant cliffs.
Sevin gave her a doubtful look, but he brought forth soldiers, gave them amber and bread, stripped them of their heavy armor, and told them to move as quickly as they could toward the respective kingdoms. “There’s a Harkan outpost a day’s walk from here,” he said. “Davo, you head in that direction, toward Harkana. Cerrik, you strike out toward the Rift valley and surrender to the nearest Feren soldiers.”
“Sir,” the soldiers said, and, looking warily at Merit, they started off on foot.
The first had scarcely disappeared when a chorus of animal cries bounded from the high cliffs. The snorts and howls echoed like boos from a crowd. They had found her man and w
ere mocking her efforts.
“Should we go after him?” Samia asked.
Sevin gave Merit a cold look: the boy was dead.
Merit searched for the second messenger, the man headed toward Harkana, but the soldier was gone. She waited, eyes wide, skin cold. She listened for the howls that had accompanied the first kill. She stood, heart beating, but heard only her breath and the distant cawing of a crow. No sounds of battle. An hour passed, then a second. Merit sent out a third soldier to survey the canyon, to see if the Hykso had taken her man and left. The soldier wove through the rocks and scrub, his black leather mixing with the dark rocks as he disappeared over the ridge. She waited for the clink of iron, for their captors’ cries, but heard neither. Flies buzzed and hawks screeched. Merit retired to her tent. Sevin lit a fire and the nervous Harkans gnawed at what provisions they had.
Just after midday Sevin’s voice resounded through the camp. “Gather your arms,” he said as Merit pushed open her tent flap. An outlander had crested the hill and was moving quickly toward them. Her captain took three of his strongest and marched toward the man, stopping just short of attack. The men converged, raised their swords, but came up short. The Harkans sheathed their blades and the ashen warrior lowered his spear. The five men stood together and talked for a tense moment, then turned and hastened together toward the camp.
“What’s happening? Are they going to kill us?” Samia asked, panic rising in her voice, and Merit answered, “I don’t know, but keep your voice down. They might kill you just for panicking.”
When they came closer, Merit saw the ash-covered man was too tall to belong to an outlander tribe, his bearing too stiff. He was Harkan, and Merit knew him well. His name was Asher Hacal, a close ally of her father’s, his friend and his captain. Merit immediately stood to greet him.
“Queen Regent,” he said, and bowed.
“What brings you so far from Harwen?”
He told Merit that he had intercepted her messenger en route to Harkana, given the man his horse, and told him to ride hard toward Harwen while Asher continued on foot, following her man’s instructions to reach Merit’s camp. When Asher encountered the Hykso, he had killed one, stolen his guise, and slipped through to the encampment.
Merit stopped him. She was confused—Asher had been escorting her father to Solus, not Harwen. What was he doing on the road to Harkana? “What’s wrong, Asher?”
He caught his breath. “I have news, it’s from Solus. Something only you can hear.”
She brought him to her tent and stood under the billowing blue cloth, where Asher’s face, long known and trusted, looked haunted, bruised. “Well?” she asked. “I assume you have come to tell me my father is dead.”
He swallowed, looking at the cup and clay vessel her servant had set on a narrow table. “May I have a drink of that?” he asked. “I’ve ridden so long, I’m absolutely parched.” Merit nodded. Asher went over and poured himself a drink, then drank it all in one long, smooth gulp. “Better,” he said. “Thank you.”
She folded her arms in front of her. “Don’t make we wait, Asher.”
He shook his head. There was something oddly sorrowful in his face, something hollow. What was it?
Asher told Merit all that had happened to her father in Solus.
“My father is the Ray?” Her mind spun. Asher cleared his throat. Merit was so dazed by the news she had almost forgotten his presence.
“Merit,” Asher continued, “this new position, it’s left your father isolated in the capital. He’s been eager to get through to you.” Merit started to speak, but Asher held up his hand. “I have other news, a matter of much greater importance,” he said, and swallowed hard. “The capital is a perilous place, and your father is uncertain of his safety. If anything should happen to him, there is another matter he needs you to understand.” He produced the small note, written in a child’s code, one Asher could not read. Recognizing her father’s blocky script, she took the note and read its brief contents in a single glance, her eyes working more quickly than her mind, her fingers nearly dropping the note when she understood its meaning.
There is no emperor. The throne room sits in ruins, the Amber Throne smashed. Smashed long ago, centuries, probably. There has been no emperor in the living memory of anyone in the empire.
45
The soldiers of the Protector’s Army arrived in columns at the Antechamber of the Ray, filling three adjoining halls, a wide vestibule, and the entirety of the courtyard beyond. More than five hundred well-armed, well-fed soldiers of the Alehkar assembled outside the Antechamber. From the look of them, all muscle and sinew, Arko guessed they were chosen from among the strongest and healthiest of the Protector’s sworn men. Behind the courtyard’s ring stood a second group, the Jundi, in their kilts and leather breastplates. Saad had spared no effort assembling this show.
When the last man stepped into line, the soldiers nearest to the Antechamber let out a shout, stomping their feet like fools, beating their bronze-tipped sandals in time with their war songs. A core of flagmen held red banners and waved them in time to the chanting. Saad would not come until Arko had had his fill of pomp and ceremony, the knock of spears, the stamping of feet shaking the ground. Like a herd of elephants out his window, Arko thought, or an army marching to war.
Earlier that day, as he waited for Saad’s arrival, he had asked Wat to post Tolemy’s proclamation. At the time, Wat had urged Arko to hold off until after his audience with the Father Protector. Arko had accepted Wat’s counsel and now he understood the wisdom behind it. His presence in the Antechamber, a rebel king ruling at the center of the empire, had obviously unnerved the young Protector, so much so that Saad had assembled five hundred of his best troops to stand at his side. If Arko had posted the decree that morning, Saad might have brought the whole army with him and Arko wasn’t ready for that—not yet. If it came to a fight, he would rather he had his loyal Harkan soldiers at his side, and since they had not yet arrived, he needed to bide his time and try to force Saad to leave Solus peacefully.
Presently, a noise went up from among the soldiers outside, a murmur either of approval or despair, Arko could not tell which. He went to the screened window and saw Saad crossing through his men, who parted to let him by. He had seen the boy only once, in the shadows of the Cenotaph, and was uncertain if this was the same man. He called Wat over and pointed to the figure coming toward the Antechamber of the Ray. “This man is the one who killed his own father? He looks barely old enough to hold a sword.”
A young man, bull-necked, his chin thrust out, Saad elbowed aside anyone who did not move fast enough for his taste. “He has the look of a second son, one who’s decided the throne should have been his all along.”
“That might not be too far off the mark.”
Arko watched Saad fling a young soldier to the ground and push his boot in the boy’s face. More than anything, Arko hated a bully, a man who ruled by force or fear. “Maybe he needs to remember his place.”
“Be cautious, sir,” Wat said. “Antagonizing him here and now might be costly.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
A knock at the door announced Saad’s arrival at the Antechamber, followed by two servants in yellow cloaks. “Now comes Amen Saad, Father Protector of the Dromus, Binder of the Circle, Guardian of the Walls and Keeper of the Chant, the son of Raden who twice vanquished the outlander horde—”
Arko smirked. Banners and chants he could understand, but the last was a stretch. When it came to the outlanders, Saad’s father had taken more hits than he had given. Arko stopped listening, but the list of titles and accolades continued. When he could bear no more, Arko held his hand up, interrupting the litany. “Thank you for informing me of the Protector’s might, but if he’s not planning on coming in soon, I might need a break to take a piss.”
Wat wrinkled his lip, knitting his brows together in concern.
The chanting grew to a crescendo as Saad’s men stomped their final be
at and the Protector entered at last, taking his time still, his chin raised a finger’s width in a gesture Arko recognized as common to short men who built their muscles with intense exercise and diets of bull testicles, feeling they had something to prove to all the world. Arko disliked him immediately.
The customs of the place dictated certain formalities: Saad greeted him with a curt nod, then had his servant recite his own list of greetings for the Ray: “Hail Arko Hark-Wadi, First Ray of the Sun, Eye of Tolemy, Light of Mithra-Sol, the Brightest Star in the Heavens—”
Arko interrupted. “I think we can forgo the usual,” he said. “Welcome, Saad. I’ve heard much about you, and none of it has been exaggerated.”
Saad was too dim to understand when he was being insulted. “Thank you, sir. I welcome you to court. Suten Anu’s exit was long overdue.” His voice was higher than Arko would have imagined. A boy’s voice.
“I hope we may be able to work together,” Arko said. I doubt it, but I can hope.
He saw equal misgiving on Saad’s face. “We share the same hope. I am told you are a soldier-king, a man who leads from the front lines. My father was such a leader, and I intend to be one as well.”
When you grow a little taller. He was glad the boy showed some sense of honor. Or was Saad just telling him what he wanted to hear?
“It is a shame my father left the empire in such a mess,” Saad continued. “It will taint his legacy, I fear. I have spent some time reorganizing his men, promoting where needed, trimming where necessary.”
Murdering your father’s loyal generals, bribing the rest.
“It has … kept my attention at home.”
“I trust that is all over now?” Arko asked, more hopeful than confident.
“For now,” Saad said. “There may come a time when I need to revisit the matter. At the moment, though, all my thoughts are on the rebel.”
Soleri Page 31