Deep, deep within the earth, in the very lowest levels of the mighty fortress, bare hands clawed relentlessly at dirt and stone. When at last they broke through into a vast, half-finished gallery, the exhausted tunnellers all but fell onto their snouts in the open, echoing space. They lay there on the smooth stone for several seconds, wringing their taloned hands and panting shallowly. Their smooth, pink noses tasted the dank air. Oil and metal, old bone and the teasing scent of man-flesh. Could this be the place the Grey Seer had sent them to find?
Yes! The Seekers caught the scent at almost the same moment. Quivering, they scrambled to their feet, wringing paw-like hands in excitement. They licked their noses, tasting the bitter dust. Sky-stone! Gifts from the Great Horned One, in numbers uncounted!
The Seekers froze, still as statues but for the wrinkling of their noses and the twitching of their ears as they searched for signs they’d been discovered.
Always, always there was the risk that something vigilant waited in the darkness; some horror with teeth or blades to rend rat-flesh. Such was the way of life in the tunnels. Every one of the Seekers had secretly picked out which of their companions they could safely throw in the path of danger so they could make good their escape.
Nothing stirred in the abandoned gallery save for the Seekers themselves. Such luck! Such glory to the first one who carried the news back to the Council! Minds buzzing with dreams of power and schemes of treachery, the Seekers turned about and fled back the way they’d come, their long, pink tails twitching behind them.
SEVENTEEN
The Deathless Court
Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 96th year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1350 Imperial Reckoning)
By day, Neferata slept, yet she did not dream. Instead, the sounds of the great city washed over her, filling her mind with fragments of mortal life that existed beyond the cold palace walls.
Sailors shouted bawdy boasts to whores walking the city docks, or sang songs of foreign shores while they made their ships ready for another long journey at sea. Servants gossiped in the market squares, or haggled over the price of melons or grain. Beggars called out to passers-by, pleading for a copper or a crust of bread. A tavern-keeper opened his doors with a muttered prayer for a good day’s custom.
Lovers argued over an imagined slight. A thief jeered at the city guard as he made good his escape. A young mother sang a lullaby for her baby. An old man wept softly, mourning the wife he’d lost the year before.
She awoke at sunset, in the utter darkness of her bedchamber, her legs tangled in silken sheets. Her limbs were stiff and cold. Thirst tightened her throat. No matter how much she drank the night before, the thirst was always with her when she woke.
The faintest sounds of movement came from beyond her bedchamber door. Neferata swiftly wiped the tears from her cheeks as her attendants swept into the room to prepare her for the long night ahead.
Lamplight filled the room as the women went about their tasks with swift and silent precision. They were all priestesses of the highest order in the secretive Lahmian Cult: orphans raised within the precincts of the former Women’s Palace and trained to serve the sacred bloodline of Asaph, as manifested in the person of the queen. Only the cult’s inner circle knew the true nature of the living goddess whom they served, but by that point their hearts and minds belonged to Neferata alone. The initiates of the cult wore robes of purest samite and masks of fine, beaten gold, wrought in the image of Asaph herself.
She waited as the priestesses laid out her robes and drew open the heavy, bronze shutters that covered the windows and shielded her from the sun. A sea breeze stirred the curtains, caressing her icy skin, and she heard the distant murmur of waves. The riot of voices in the city below faded to a dull roar, not unlike the sound of the restless surf.
A priestess knelt by the side of her bed, her masked face carefully downcast. The mask she wore had been modelled on Neferata’s own face, and wrought with exacting detail. With both hands she offered a golden goblet brimming with blood.
“For you, holy one,” she intoned in a hollow voice. “An offer of love, and life eternal.”
Neferata took the goblet from the priestess and held it to her breast, savouring its warmth. The thirst grew suddenly, painfully sharp; her hand tightened on the metal rim, and she became horribly aware of the curved fangs pressing against her lower gums. As she did each night, she forced herself to remain still and calm until the feral impulse subsided. Slowly, deliberately, she raised the goblet to her lips and drained it in a single draught. Not one precious drop escaped her lips.
When she was done, she handed the vessel back to the priestess. The ritual would be repeated again at midnight, and once more just before dawn. Bloodletting in small amounts was a central tenet of the Lahmian Cult; from the lowliest acolyte to the most senior priestesses, each initiate surrendered a small portion each night as part of rituals intended to bring them closer to the goddess.
The cult had been a clever scheme on the part of W’soran, who envisioned it as both a cover for their predations and a safe haven from which to continue their rule over the city. Under Neferata’s leadership it had also become a useful political tool as well, lending the Lahmian throne a degree of divine authority that the other Nehekharan cities lacked. The cult boasted a single, grand temple, converted from the Women’s Palace during the latter days of Neferata’s official reign. The temple’s inner sanctum, a small complex of buildings in its own right, encompassed her private apartments and the palace’s old central garden and still retained the opulence of its former existence. Nagash’s tomes were kept in an arcane laboratory inside the sanctum, its doors sealed by physical and magical locks that only Neferata and W’soran together could open.
Fresh strength flowed through Neferata’s limbs and lent her a small measure of warmth. She rose from the bed and spread her arms, allowing the priestesses to dress her. They garbed her in the raiment of an empress: robes of the finest Eastern silk, in layers of saffron, crimson and sapphire, embroidered with gold and silver thread and hundreds of tiny pearls. A girdle of fine, hammered gold was draped about her hips, its plates inset with dark, polished rubies. Deft hands slid precious bracelets onto her wrists, and a necklace made of heavy, gold links was fastened about her neck.
When the priestesses had completed the elaborate costume, they led her to the dressing table and bade her sit. Jewelled slippers were placed on her feet, and her eyes were darkened with kohl. All the while, Neferata stared out the open windows, listening to the sea. The steady whisper of the deeps soothed her mind as almost nothing else could.
As the priestesses worked, another pale figure slipped silently into the room and sat gracefully upon the edge of Neferata’s bed. She was slim and delicate of feature, like the porcelain dolls from the land of her birth, and favoured elegant silk robes cut in the Eastern style. Her raven-black hair was swept up behind her head, held there with golden pins and a comb of polished jade. It drew attention to her slender neck, and emphasised her artful, elegant sense of poise.
Everything about her was carefully crafted, from the precise angles her hands made as they rested in her lap, to the patient, composed tilt of her pointed chin. She had been a courtesan once, expensively educated and trained from early childhood to be a companion to princes and emperors. Her purpose had been to moderate the baser appetites of noble men and elevate their public appearance with her refined manner. She had been an ornament, like a jewelled songbird that hovered about the shoulders of the wealthy and powerful. In those days, she hadn’t even had a proper name. To her master, Prince Xian, she had simply been known as White Orchid. Neferata called her Naaima, and in her court she wanted for nothing.
The priestesses finished their work and withdrew as silently as they’d come. As they left, Naaima rose from the bed and went to her mistress. She ran slender fingers through Neferata’s long hair, deftly teasing out the tangles, and then chose a silver-backed brush from the table.
Naaima slept in a luxurious bedchamber just across the corridor from Neferata’s own. Centuries ago, when Neferata had persuaded her to take the poisoned cup, she had kept Naaima as close to her as she could, often taking comfort in the former courtesan’s embrace while she slept. It did not last, however. As time wore on, Neferata felt only the coldness of Naaima’s embrace, the deathly stillness of her body as she slept. There was no comfort to the found in the embrace of the dead.
The question irritated her. “Perhaps I was dreaming,” Neferata said coldly. Even after two hundred years, the language of the easterners felt strange on her tongue. “Do you always listen to me while I sleep?”
“Sometimes,” Naaima replied, ignoring the brittle edge in Neferata’s voice. She was silent for a time as she finished her brushing, then gathered up a handful of golden pins. As she drew back Neferata’s long hair she said, “It sounded as though you were calling to a hawk.”
Neferata’s body betrayed nothing. The pain was still sharp, even now, like a needle in her heart. The passage of years wore away the softer emotions first, she’d learned, while the harder, crueller ones endured.
“You must be mistaken,” she managed to say. “I know nothing of hawks. Falconry never held any interest for me.”
“Of course,” Naaima replied smoothly. She did not pursue the matter any further. When she was finished with Neferata’s hair, she went to the wooden box that sat on a pedestal in one corner of the room. Opening it, she drew out Neferata’s golden mask. The delicate metal of the mask bore the weight of centuries upon its cold face. She studied it for a moment, frowning slightly. “You should have a crown,” she said. “You deserve better than this.”
“The crown is for the Queen of Lahmia,” Neferata replied. “I am merely its ruler.” She beckoned to Naaima. “Bring it here. I have work to do.”
She forced herself to hold still as Naaima slipped the mask onto her face. Every time she felt the touch of metal against her cheeks she was reminded of her own funeral. It reminded her now of nothing but death and loss. When it was in place she rose without a word and made her way from the chamber. Naaima fell into step a precise six paces behind her; the habits of a lifetime and were nearly impossible to overcome, and only became more so in the unlife that followed.
The corridors of the inner sanctum were funereal in their stillness. There were never more than three hundred acolytes and initiates of the cult at any one time, and they were swallowed up whole by the vast size of the temple complex. Neferata walked in silence down the dimly lit passageways, then across the broad expanse of the former palace garden. The trees and tall ferns grew wild and untended now, and many of the rare flowers had died without the care of the gardeners. Bats circled overhead, darting and dancing in the moonlight. She listened to their strange, almost plaintive cries, as she did every night, and wondered who or what it was they were calling for.
They crossed the wild garden, and then entered another set of silent, echoing chambers on the far side. Moments later they arrived at a pair of bronze doors, attended by silent, masked priestesses. Ubaid waited beside them. Though he still looked as young as the day he’d tasted Lamashizzar’s elixir, his back was hunched and his hands trembled like that of an old man. His eyes were round and bright like polished glass. As Neferata approached, he managed a clumsy bow.
“The court awaits, holy one,” he said in a ragged voice. The former grand vizier sounded as though his inner workings had been crushed to pieces, then carelessly reassembled.
Neferata ignored him. With a curt nod, the priestesses pulled open the doors. Warm, yellow light poured over her as she crossed the threshold into the audience chamber. The blocks of polished sandstone and the lacquered wooden screens of the Hall of Reverent Contemplation had been dismantled and rebuilt within the inner sanctum when the Women’s Palace had been renovated. She knew she would no longer have any need for the vast, echoing court chamber that she’d presided from in the palace proper, and she’d thought the familiar surroundings would be a comfort in the ages to come. How little she had known.
She climbed the back of the dais and stepped around the tall, wooden throne. It was the one concession to her ego that she’d allowed when she surrendered her crown. A vast fortune had been spent to hire a small expedition to scour the southern jungles for a match to the wood that had been used for the original throne, and a still greater sum paid to find and commission an artisan skilled enough to shape it into an exact copy of the original. The whole process had taken almost as long as the construction of the temple itself. Neferata had never gotten around to asking Lord Ushoran what had become of the artisan afterward. Certainly no one ever found the body.
Neferata settled gracefully into the ancient chair and surveyed the audience chamber. Lord Ankhat stood closest to the dais, attended by a pair of enthralled retainers burdened with stacks of ledgers and bundles of scrolls. Lord Ushoran waited at a careful remove from Ankhat, his expression distant as he meditated on his intrigues. This evening W’soran was present as well, accompanied by an enthralled young scribe who was busily copying down his master’s muttered dictation. As always, Lord Zurhas lingered furthest from the throne, his arms folded tightly across his chest and a look on his face that said he would rather be gambling away his fortune in some squalid dice house.
Each one bore the marks of unlife in their own, unique way. Lord Ankhat, was, if anything, more lordly in mien than before, possessing a dominating presence that nearly rivalled her own. Ushoran, on the other hand, was just the opposite. He seemed more changeable, more chimerical than before. There were times that Neferata was certain his features looked subtly different from one moment to the next. Unfortunately for Lord Zurhas, his features were entirely fixed. Neferata couldn’t help but think he turned more craven and rodent-like with each passing year.
Then there was W’soran. The old scholar had been the first to ask Neferata to drink from the poisoned cup, and since rising from his deathbed he had grown even more gaunt and skeletal than before. Now, centuries later, he was a hideous creature, more resembling a walking corpse than a man. The very sight of him filled her with dread. For the longest time, she was afraid that some error in the ritual had caused his transformation, and that he secretly hated her for it. But Lord Ushoran insisted that W’soran was actually pleased with what he’d become.
When she was seated, Naaima glided soundlessly around the dais and took her place at Neferata’s right, head bowed and hands clasped at her waist. Moments later, Ubaid shuffled around to Neferata’s left and cleared his gravelly throat.
“Pay heed to the throne of Lahmia,” the grand vizier intoned, his voice echoing in the nearly empty chamber. “The court of Neferata the Eternal is convened. Let all bear witness to her glory.”
* * *
“The last of the annual tribute has arrived,” Ankhat said, scanning the contents of the ledger in his hands. “Zandri has come up short again.”
Neferata sighed. “What is the excuse this time?”
Ankhat shrugged. “Pirates, of course. Cut down profits on the slave trade by nearly a third, according to them.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are they telling the truth, Ushoran?”
The Lord of Masks shook his head. His network of spies now reached from one end of Nehekhara to the other. Lahmia was the centre of the civilized world, richer by far than any of the other great cities combined. The yearly tribute to pay off the interest on their debts saw to that. There were a great many powerful people who resented that fact. “Zandri’s navy is as strong as ever,” he said. “There hasn’t been a pirate spotted in her waters for more than a century.”
“And does Numas support Zandri’s reckless behaviour?” Neferata asked.
Ankhat snorted. “Given how much we’re paying them for grain? I should hope not.�
�� The city of Numas, situated on the wide Plains of Plenty, had long been the chief food producer in Nehekhara. Now, with reports that the fertile banks of the River Vitae were shrinking, and the desert encroaching on the other cities more and more each year, their power and influence had grown tenfold. Even Lahmia found itself increasingly beholden to the distant city, as increasing numbers of bandit gangs drove farmers off the Golden Plain.
“Numas has given no sign of support for Zandri,” Ushoran agreed. “The west has changed a great deal in the last two hundred years, and the only real common ground the two cities ever had was their brief allegiance to Nagash. If anything, I suspect that Zandri is growing bold in response to Numas’ growing stature.”
“And does Numas pose a threat to us?” Neferata asked. Naaima chided her often that she saw potential threats everywhere these days. When one ruled a de facto empire, it was the only way to survive.
Ushoran gave another of his shrugs. “Now? No. A hundred years from now? Perhaps.”
Neferata sighed. “How quickly they seem to forget,” she growled. “Three hundred years of peace and prosperity has evidently spoiled them. Perhaps a punitive expedition to Zandri is in order.”
Ushoran glanced at Ankhat, who shifted uncomfortably.
“For that, we’ll need an army, I suspect,” Ankhat said.
Neferata straightened. “What happened to the army we had?” she demanded.
“Three hundred years of peace and prosperity,” Ankhat replied. “Lamashizzar began reducing the army right after the war, and it was allowed to wither ever since. There didn’t seem to be a point to maintaining an expensive army when the trade policies were working so well, and besides, it’s highly unlikely the dragon power has retained its potency after so long in storage.”
Neferata glowered behind her mask. There likely wouldn’t be any more opportunities to buy the exotic powder, either. The Eastern Empire was still as secretive and isolationist as it ever had been, but Ushoran’s spies in the trade cities hinted that there had been great upheavals inside its borders. Prince Xian Ha Feng, scion of the Celestial Household, had defied the edicts of the Emperor for two years after his first taste of Neferata’s blood, effectively resolving the matter of Lahmia’s debt to the Empire.
[Nagash 02] - Nagash the Unbroken Page 27