The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1)

by Jacob T. Helvey

  “The storm started earlier than we expected. Caught us a bit off guard.” He nodded to himself. “But you could call this normal.”

  “Amazing,” Grith breathed, more for himself than the Captain. They hit another wave and he was once more forced to grab onto the mast as the ship pitched.

  In response, he entered the Deepening, not fully, but enough to give himself a little extra strength and balance. He gasped. The sea grew as bright as it had on the clearest day. The great thunderheads coalesced into clear, billowing shapes, sharp as an ink sketch. And to starboard, towards the Eye, was a blinding light. Grith gripped the mast with white-knuckled fear, trying to stop from passing out from the shear brilliance of it all. It was like staring into the sun.

  This is something we aren’t meant to see, Grith thought, watching in awe as the light coalesced into a human shape, tall and vast as the sky.

  “There’s something out there!” one of the sailors shouted from the bow. Grith only half heard him. His focus remained on the being of light. It was moving towards them, its immense legs, each the size of an oak, pistoning through the water, but leaving no wake.

  “Don’t be a fool!” Oshek shouted. “Nothing can survive this storm!”

  “I see it too!” another sailor shouted. “It’s a man! A fucking man!”

  Grith could see the figure in the light more clearly now. Yes, a man, surprisingly human, seemingly made out of the same stuff as the stars.

  “Have you ever seen that before!?” Grith demanded. He forced himself to let go of the mast and stumbled to starboard. He leaned over the railing and stared into the distance, trying to get a better view of the man in the light.

  Oshek was silent, seemingly rendered speechless by the sight.

  Many of the sailors had halted their work. They fell to their hands and knees, some chanting, others screaming prayers to the Pentad: the five Heranan gods. Grith gave his own quick invocation. His Ancestors might have been thousands of miles distant, but perhaps they were still listening to their most wayward son.

  “Get back to work, you fucking louts!” Oshek finally commanded. “The gods won’t save us now! Only we can do that!”

  The men found themselves and rose to their feet one at a time, all with uneasy postures and uncomfortable expressions. They headed back to their posts, but every few moments Grith would see one glance up from his work towards the figure in the distance, awe written across his face.

  “What in the name of Tirrak!?” Tain demanded as he came onto deck. He wore an oil cloak like Grith’s, for all the good it seemed to be doing. His clothes had already been stained dark by the constant battering of rain and waves.

  “I don’t know!” Grith had never believed in gods before. The mainlanders always spoke of respecting Tirrak or Kushil or Taman or whatever deity fit their fancy. But where were they, these legendary gods? They had taken such an active role in the lives of the ancients. Why had they fled the mortal world?

  But now, Grith thought, he might be ready to convert.

  The being of light halted a few hundred yards from the Wind’s Caress, staring down at them with eyes of liquid fire. The storm seemed to quieten for a moment as the world held its breath.

  Then, as quickly as he had appeared, the figure was gone, vanishing in a flash of light, leaving a void of shadow in his wake. Grith blinked. The wind picked up again, and once more they were thrust into the heart of the storm, thoughts of the miracle they had witnessed temporarily forgotten.

  Seventeen:

  Grith

  With memories of gods and strange dreams, Grith stepped onto the docks of Ytem just as uneasy as the day he had left Saleno. But Spirits, it was good to be on dry land again, even if that land was foreign and presumably hostile. Nothing swayed, nothing was damp, and for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t nauseated. Some of the sailors kissed the stone beneath their feet, giving quiet prayers to the Sea Maiden—one of the gods of the Pentad—for a safe trip.

  Grith stepped aside to let a group of Irrin’s guardsmen onto the dock. Tain was at their head, hand on his saber, eyes watchful for any sign of trouble. They formed a circle, weapons ready, scanning the waterfront for threats. There was nothing, of course. Word of the Highlander’s failed assassination attempt couldn’t have made it this far south, not even on the fastest ship. They would have days, perhaps weeks yet, to plan for a second attempt on Irrin’s life.

  It should have been a relief to not have a threat looming over them, but it only served to reinforce Grith’s sense of unease. They had outrun the caiman, but it was only a matter of time before it was nipping at their heels once again.

  When it was determined that the docks were safe, Grith motioned for the remaining guards to come off the ship. They led Irrin, clad in a robe of scarlet, onto the stone. He was followed by two dozen scribes and servants, the latter carrying heavy chests full of clothing, records, and anything else the High Lord couldn’t afford to go without.

  Irrin turned to one of few the servants not carrying a chest. “Find us a few wagon teams.” He counted the containers in turn. “Three should do,” he said, placing a small purse in the man’s hand.

  “As you say, High Lord.” The servant bowed and ran down the docks and out of sight between two warehouses.

  “And transportation for the High Lord?” Tain asked. He always referred to Irrin on more formal terms when in public. It was important that outsiders saw that the High Lord’s servants treated him with the upmost respect.

  “My legs could do with some loosening up,” Irrin replied. “I think a walk would do us all some good.”

  Tain nodded. “Yes, my lord.” He turned and gave a few curt orders to the guards. They formed up, packing tightly around Irrin and his entourage.

  “One more thing,” Irrin told one of his servants, a pockmarked youth who didn’t look like he could have been more than fifteen. “High Lord Uche won’t be expecting us so early. I want you to go to the Pasha’s Palace and inform him of our arrival.”

  “The Pasha’s Palace, High Lord?” the servant asked.

  “It will be near the center of the city, a wide pink building lined with palm trees. The High Lord has assured me in several of his letters that it is unmistakably garish.”

  “Forgive me High Lord, but palm trees?” Grith realized that the man had probably never even seen a palm tree. They were rare, even in the Marshes. It had taken his father months of searching to scrounge together enough wood to build their house.

  “You’ll know the place when you see it, or so Uche assured me.” Irrin waved his hand, dismissing the servant. The boy gave a bow and ran off in the same direction as his comrade.

  Grith frowned as the servant returned only a few moments later, followed by a dozen soldiers. They were armored in breastplates and helmets, with patches on their shoulders depicting a stylized red heart. Uche’s sigil?

  The man who led the group had the look and bearing of an officer. Heavy scarring added years to a face that was otherwise rather young. He gave a bow upon seeing Irrin and stepped forward. Guards moved in to stop him, but the High Lord waved them away. “Let the man speak,” he said. “We are the honored guests of his lord after all.”

  “High Lord Irrin?” the man asked. Irrin nodded. “We weren’t expecting you for another week,” he continued. He glanced at the Wind’s Caress, pushing back a lock of dark hair from in front of youthful eyes. “But I see that you took a stormrunner. A dangerous gamble, if I do say so myself.”

  “Well worth it,” Irrin replied. “There are matters I must discuss with Uche. Matters that couldn’t wait on a cog.”

  “Plans have changed, High Lord?” the officer asked. Grith frowned and shared an uncomfortable look with Tain. This man knew too much for a lowly officer. Even Irrin’s bannermen knew little of his true plans. High Lord Uche was loose with secrets.

  “And may I ask how a
captain knows of such things?” Irrin said, giving voice to Grith’s thoughts.

  “My name is Vernhert Linsgrav, first cousin of High Lord Uche,” the captain said, standing a little straighter than before. “He trusts his family.”

  “A foolish sentiment,” Irrin said casually. “I wouldn’t trust my cousins as far as I could throw them. It is behavior like that that will get Uche killed one of these days.”

  Vernhert was clearly taken aback by the insult, but managed to keep his tongue in check. “High Lord…” he cleared his throat. “I sent a runner to the Palace as soon as I heard of your arrival. High Lord Uche will be awaiting you there.”

  “Very good.” Irrin said, either not noticing or not caring that he had just insulted the officer. “Lead the way.”

  * * *

  Ytem felt wrong, unlike any other city Grith had ever visited in his travels. Akiv had been planned from the beginning as the capital of Hadan’s empire, and was laid on an orderly grid, providing space for wide avenues and immense public works projects. And although Saleno might have been tightly packed, there had still been a feeling of controlled chaos.

  Ytem, on the other hand, was like a market town writ large. Neighborhoods clustered around central squares, each home to no more than a few hundred residents. These small communities had their own shops, tradesmen, and even their own temples. Each was separated from its neighbors by dirt paths, running through the city like the roots of a mangrove. The place felt organic, natural, and strange.

  It didn’t take long for Grith to figure out who came from which community. They even dressed differently. Some preferred striped tunics, cut just above the knee, while others wore loose robes in solid colors. He had seen towns and cities hundreds of miles apart with more in common. Only their appearance united the Ytemi as a single people.

  Their skin was of a similar color to Grith’s own, but perhaps a bit lighter, with more of a bronze tone, but that was where the resemblance ended. Their hair was the color of flame, a red so deep as to make them look like demons, their heads set ablaze. And their eyes… most were brown, but a few had irises of red or orange. Grith shivered at their blank expressions. There was no anger there, no impotent hatred, as he had expected. Two years of occupation had torn the fight from these peoples’ very souls.

  Passing several of the strange neighborhoods and then through a dense central section of the city, Irrin’s party came to a single structure, separate from the others. And what a structure it was…

  The Pasha’s Palace was partially hidden behind hundreds of paces of thick gardens and parks, keeping it well away from the homes of commoner and merchant alike. The soldiers were thicker here, wearing the same uniforms as Captain Vernhert’s men. There were scribes and servants as well and even a few rich looking Falankiri. Grith had heard about them. Traitors who had betrayed their own people when it was clear that the defense of their homeland was untenable. They carried themselves with more pride than those around them, and were decked in thick fabrics, the richness of which was only matched by their hair, braided with gold and silver clips and bangles. It gave them an exotic caste, like the legendary rulers of the Sunset Kingdoms. They cut strangely beautiful figures, but were nothing compared to the palace that had once been the seat of their ruler.

  The Pasha’s Palace was just as garish as Irrin had warned. The stone from which the structure was built looked to be marble, as white as any Grith had ever seen, but crossed with seams of pink, like the blue veins visible beneath the skin of some mainlanders. The Palace was low, built on a single level, with crenellations like scrollwork topping the rooves. Arched windows lined every side, thin and revealing nothing of the interior. While the palace may not have looked particularly defensible, those windows had the suspicious appearance of arrow slits.

  “Now I see why Uche committed so heavily to this place,” Irrin told Vernhert. “It is garish, as he said, but it does have a certain beauty to it.”

  “It does, High Lord,” The captain replied. “And the riches of this land are countless. Gold, ivory, hides.” He pulled at the sweat-stained collar of his uniform. “Worth the time spent here, I can assure you of that.”

  “I should have been one of the first across,” Irrin said lightly, betraying none of the regret he must have felt. “I could have been the one to claim all this. But I have always been a cautious man. Too cautious to take risks like this, at least.”

  Their party circled the length and width of the palace—several hundred yards by Grith’s estimate—before coming to its entrance. A frieze above the cavernous entryway depicted a long dead Pasha, the ruler of Ytem, taking offerings from his people. They laid bread and wine and rice at the feet of his throne, their eyes downcast, their faces absent of emotion. At the rear of the procession was a man, taller than the others. He carried a large skin over his shoulder. There was something strange about his face, more than just a quirk of the sculptor. Cutaran, Grith thought. He had heard that the Fanalkiri had once had good relations with the barbarians, good enough, he could see, that they had even made offerings to the Pasha.

  The interior of the palace was as richly decorated as the outside, with carvings and paintings lining the walls of the square gardens through which they passed. These gardens were each surrounded by pillared arcades and behind them, rooms. It gave the entire structure and each enclosed apartment within a natural feel. Anywhere you went, you were only a few steps from flowers, bushes, vines, and fresh air.

  They weren’t given time to marvel as Vernhert took them right and into yet another garden. Where the other dozen or so had been well groomed, the landscape here had been left wild. Partially obscured by vines and trees laden with fruits, a lone man lounged atop a marble bench.

  He was short, and although not fat, looked to be well on his way. His long hair fell to his shoulders in a black wave that covered the collar of his dark riding jacket, which had to be left open on account of his paunch.

  He smiled when he saw Irrin and rose from the bench on which he had been sitting. “I almost didn’t believe them when they said you’d come.” The words came out thick and slurred. Grith had only met a few Linsgravi in his life, but they all had the same heavy, phlegm-filled way of speaking.

  “Uche!” Irrin exclaimed. He took a few quick steps to the bench and held out his hand. Uche shook it vigorously.

  “Tirrak! It’s good to see you, Irrin! How long has it been?”

  “Seven years, I think. Last time we met, Kilri and Vashava had just signed the peace treaty to end the Autumn Rebellion.” Irrin let go of Uche’s hand and sat down on the lip of one of the garden’s beds.

  Uche sighed. “A shame we didn’t get to fight then.”

  Irrin grimaced. “A shame? Tirrak! You must be desperate for action these days, to be yearning for a second chance at Anton.”

  “Just letting a little of my frustration rise to the surface.” Uche shook his head. “This war just drags on and on. No sign of victory, no sign of an end.”

  “You haven’t gone out on expeditions?” Irrin asked. “I thought that was the whole idea of being down here?”

  “Expeditions are for the rabble, the minor lords with nothing to lose. Men like us sit back and collect the coin and try and keep our asses out of the fire.” Uche motioned to one his servants, who stood a respectable distance from them in the arcade. Grith was surprised to see that she was Fanalkiri. So it had only taken two short years for the High Lords to start trusting these people enough have them serve in their households. “Bring some chairs for my guests!”

  “Men like us?” Irrin said wryly. “Men like you, you mean. I missed my chance at coin two years ago. Now, I’m only down here at the Emperor’s behest.” The High Lord didn’t seem angry at this fact. But, under all of his lordly affectations, Grith detected a hint jealousy for his bold friend.

  Uche shook his head. Perhaps you should count yourself lucky then
. I was like a bloodhound at first, going out there and hunting the Cutarans down. But fighting those bastards is like fighting your own shadow. Every time you think you have them pinned down, they slip your grasp.”

  Irrin raised an eyebrow. “You have some experience with that?”

  “I do.” Uche growled, the jab deflecting off him like an arrow off a shield. “We only fought two good battles against them, at the beginning of the war. After we handed them their asses a couple of times, they wised up, realized guerilla actions were the only way to fight us.”

  “But that’s not why you’re here,” he continued, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “My cousin said you had something urgent to discuss with me. I assume that’s why you decide to take a stormrunner. I can’t think of another reason to ride down here in one of those deathtraps.”

  Irrin glanced around the small garden, checking for eavesdroppers—a formality with Grith and Tain present. The Deepening strengthened all the senses, even if you didn’t enter the trance completely. Grith could hear footsteps a hundred paces away, see the glint of a knife amongst a crowd of dozens. With the servants gone to retrieve seating, they were truly alone in the garden.

  “I was attacked on the way to Saleno,” Irrin said quietly.

  “Not bandits I assume,” Uche concluded, curious. “A rival lord?”

  “Highlanders.” The word brought the garden to silence. Even the wrens and sparrows seemed to quieten in their perches above. It was an accusation that could mean death, if heard by the wrong ears.

  Uche gave an uncomfortable smile. “Irrin, if this is your idea of a joke…” His smile faded when he saw his friend’s cold expression. “You’re serious. Aren’t you?”

  Irrin only nodded.

  “Perhaps there was some kind of mistake…”

  “The tattoos, the fighting style,” Tain interjected. “Those don’t lie, High Lord. Those men and women, they were Highlanders.”