“It’schilled.”
“Chilled?” She brushed her fingers over the wall. “Doesn’t feel especially cold.”
“When thestarling-black drips.”
Ashtadukht looked up. “Interesting. Unsettling, too. But interesting all the same. The thought of that, well, whatever it is—”
“The starling-black.”
“The starling-black dripping sends a shiver down my spine.”
Waray nodded gravely.
“Give me a warning if that’s about to happen,” Ashtadukht said. Turning her attention back to the wall, “Where’s the gate?”
The half-viper looked one way, then the next. Engorged gluttony got its just desserts: a thunderclap in the distance signalled its demise. “Don’t know,” she said at length, toying with the bit of her axe.
Ashtadukht followed her gaze; it was cocked away from Down Below. “There is one, right? A gate.”
“Maybe.”
“Waray.”
“. . .”
She sighed and swung back to face where the wall had been, except now she stared down an avenue bustling with divs. Some she recognized, some were utterly foreign, all were engaged in one obscene act or another. The stench hit her worse than the largest, most unsanitary of cities. Strangely, despite identifying it as a stench, she didn’t feel at all disturbed by it, as if she’d been inured to it without her knowledge.
Waray lashed out with her axe, cleaving the porcine jowls from a div and chopping into its furry clavicle. Planting her foot on its chest and shoving it off her bit, she then flashed an intense grin at Ashtadukht.
“Nogate,” she said, tapping her scaled head with the butt of the now bloody axe. “Gate’s uphere.”
“I sometimes wonder if that’s all that’s up there,” Ashtadukht muttered under her breath. Then, where the half-viper could hear, “You’ve got their attention. I sure hope that’s what you intended.”
Waray had done more than that; she’d dispersed their merrymaking like so much wind, and Down Below seized up. Eshm’s stock were a force to be remembered. Down Below would need more than a few centuries for the havoc wreaked by Waray and Skharag to blow over.
“All eyes on us,” Ashtadukht said, taking a few wary steps back. She cast over her shoulder: only wall to her rear.
“Half breeds,” bubbled an octopus-headed div. “Bold ones, I say.”
“Together, do they make a whole?” pondered another div, less open to description in the human vernacular.
Another stepped forward, its sludge-slickened mating appendage dragging behind its feet. Ashtadukht didn’t find it repulsive, and that in itself repulsed her. “New filly here come to get wrecked, eh?”
“Be wary,” wheezed something like a deflated ant. “Eshm courses through the one. You were away at the time, but we remember the bloody swathes they cut—inventive, too.”
“Even made a game of pranks out of it,” added another. “Eshm’s other stock at least has the decency to cut us down with respect.”
A din of ayes thundered, a din in which most of Down Below took part.
“Quite the reputation,” Ashtadukht said through a grimace. “You weren’t kidding about the thrashing.”
Waray’s crooked grin arced toward an eye like lightning. The butt of the axe continued tapping at her skull. From her shining expression and puffed chest, it could be gathered that she was especially pleased with herself.
“I wouldn’t take it as praise,” said Ashtadukht. “Not now anyway. They don’t seem too keen on extolling you.”
“I’ll fell a dell. Deliverthetimber to a carpenter. Getsome crosses hammered. Šo-stable crosses. I’ll crucify eachandevery šo-smirking div.” Waray hissed, flourishing her axe at those closest to her. “Then I’ll fell a dell ofcrosses.”
The crowd parted, divs shuffling aside by whatever fey means of locomotion they had, to make way for an approaching figure. With his squared shoulders, upraised chin, full beard, and lustrous hair, he reminded Ashtadukht of her brother. There was more to it than that, however; something about his carriage struck home, really brought it together. He stopped in front of her and shook his head at Waray, amused by her display.
“You always were one for theatrics, you and your sister,” he said. “A trait I’ve always respected. Really gets the blood going.” This engendered a hearty laugh from the man. “Gets the blood going. I crack myself up sometimes.” He leaned in, and his snide tone indicated he knew exactly what he was doing. “Where is your sister, by the way? Huh, Shkarag?”
The axe fell. Waray issued a terribly buzzing whine. She raked her nails over her scalp; if she had hair, she surely would have tugged at it. “NotShkarag,” she cried miserably. “Not Shkarag.”
“Too easy,” the man said to Ashtadukht, who’d retrieved Waray’s axe. “Amazing, the power of words, isn’t it?”
The half-whore brought the axe to bear. “Don’t make me do it again.”
“Ah, so you’ve figured me out already? You always were a quick one.” Ahriman shrugged. “Thought you’d appreciate this form. Need a better view? How about—” His clothes vanished. “Now?”
His skin glistened as if he’d just brought an intense sparring session to a close; underneath, the sinews flexed and bulged against his flesh with the slightest movement; and lower . . . Ashtadukht sucked in a breath, vigorously kneading the cuff of her sleeve. She looked away with no small amount of difficulty.
He came forward and draped an arm over her shoulder. In doing so, his thigh brushed against her wrist and she nearly lost it. “Oh, ho,” he boomed light-heartedly. “Don’t be so timid. There’s no need. Not here.”
“This isn’t why I’m here,” she scathingly rebuffed.
Ahriman smirked. She could hear it in the slant of his voice as he whispered into her ear. “You and I both know what you are. What you’re experiencing. What you’ve been experiencing since you arrived is no secret to me. Let go, my scrumptious little Ashta.”
She gripped her cuff in a fist. “No.”
“I could take you,” he mused in hushed tones. “Here, in front of all of Down Below. Break you. Humiliate you. You know what I think? I think you’d enjoy it.” He let that linger, let the weight of it sink in, for she did not doubt he could humiliate her in ways even her more imaginative half couldn’t fathom—but most assuredly yearned for. Once she’d been given ample time for rumination, he pecked her cheek and spun away. “But I won’t. Because you’ll come to me, my wilted whore.”
Ahriman chortled and strolled off, the throngs sweeping in behind him. “The stage is yours,” he called. “Try not to break anything. You’ll spoil it for me.”
The divs crowded around her expectantly. In making such a show of her arrival, Ahriman had indeed fashioned her a stage. She knelt by the half-viper, who was still raking at her head, and rubbed her back. “Hang in there, Waray,” she said, pointedly using the name the half-viper wanted to hear. “I’m here. You’re here. All’s well.”
Ashtadukht extracted the spoon from her tunic.
“Howdy,” it said. “Don’t seem hunky dory from where I’m at.”
“Yeah,” Ashtadukht thought.
“Rich stuff. Audience is a-waiting.”
“That’s the trouble. I’ve never been a public speaker. Thought you might have some insight.”
“A spoon?” asked the spoon.
“You weren’t always a spoon. We don’t have time for this.”
“Tell them who you are for starters. I’m sure they’re hankering to know, ain’t they?”
Ashtadukht nodded. She didn’t stand; she drew herself up. And in doing so the half-whore brought to bear all of the bravado and carriage she’d learned to put on as a noblewoman and royal star-reckoner. The trick lay half in never letting them know you doubted yourself and half in tricking yourself into believing you never doubted yourself.
“I’m sure you’ve heard my name,” she bellowed, sweeping a gaze like dignified wildfire across the crowd. “I’m Ashtadukht.�
�
This provoked an uproar. Star-reckoner was belched from more than a few mouths—at times from the same div—and the title spread across Down Below. The fear and deep-seated hatred it evoked drowned out any mention of her longtime advocacy of and clemency toward divs.
“Explain,” instructed the spoon. “And quickly. You’re losing them faster than knickers in a twister.”
“Star-reckoner?” she shouted, slathering the term with scorn. “I’ve never been a star-reckoner. That title was given to me unjustly, forced upon me same as you’ve no doubt been labelled unjustly: as something to be disposed of. Ask yourselves how a half-div can reckon with the stars. I can’t ask for their support any more than I can refrain from contracting ‘can’t’. I’ve always relied on the planets, and in doing so, I’ve brought an end to more star-reckoners than any other div can lay claim to! I’ve devoted my life to it! What’s more, I tricked them into thinking I was searching for the div responsible! Made fools of the lot!”
There came a general buzz of approval, with some trepidation.
“Good. You turned that one on its ass. Keep it up. Lasso them then reel them in.”
Ashtadukht waved her arm over the host. “Divs, all of you. But me? I’m half-div. You think of it as a weakness to be taken advantage of, but I know how humans think. I understand them. I can—”
“Make the Lie the Truth.”
“Make the Lie the Truth. The blood of Jeh runs through me. The blood of a mighty general runs alongside. And I aim to use both to weed out each and every star-reckoner. You can join me in retribution or . . .”
She frowned at the host. Her speech wasn’t at all convincing. They entertained her, but she had given them no reason to follow her. Try as she might, Ashtadukht didn’t have the gift for it.
“Don’t ease up now, you hear.”
“Or what?”
Ashtadukht levelled her frown on the one who’d spoken, the deflated ant. “Or rot here like you’ve been all your lives, bound to, to what? Bound to slog your way home when the day arrives, to flee at the merest mention of the Truth—at the behest of words. You’re all pitiful, and you return as if you were triumphant, to engage in—” She gestured vaguely. “To engage in piddling celebration when you’ve been driven back with your tails between your legs.”
“May be going a bit too far with the—”
“Shut up.” She shoved the spoon into her tunic and continued.
“I’m not here to convince you, because any div who needs a half-div to convince them to fight the Truth isn’t a div at all.” She folded her arms in an effort to mollify her growing ache to knead the cuff of her sleeve, and make a more imposing figure. “I want every star-reckoner defiled and buried. I’ve worked toward that goal quietly until now. Fuck quietly, I say. The div in me wants to cause some chaos.”
“I believe,” the deflated ant wheezed, “I believe there are labours you must endure beforehand. Like the heroes who’ve fought us.”
Ashtadukht scoffed. As she spoke, a storm formed in her throat, electrifying her words. “Labours? A half-div dragged through the trials of a star-reckoner? A planet-reckoner who has done many a div a favour? A—no. Screw your labours. I’m finished talking.”
She’d worked herself livid. Her rapport should have been worth more. The divs didn’t appreciate how far out of her way she’d gone for them. They probably saw her accomplishments in ridding the world of star-reckoner scum as something they could have done if they’d put their minds to it. And this wheezing, incorrigible windbag of an ant infuriated her. She’d had enough.
She drew a lot.
There were no stars from which to wrench power. The constellations did not gleam with the promise of the elements—the sacrifice of fire, blood of air, sensuality of earth, imagination of water. The planets did not set upon the stars in fits of envy. The war of the luminaries did not fill the heavens with the cry of battle. There was no multi-hedron to scrape and clatter along the furrow-scarred pathways of her mind. The lot, in short, failed.
But only in the traditional sense. Where the planets would have diverted the majesty of the stars, something else flushed in. Something insidious. Something starling-black.
Her mouth had been moving throughout the reckoning, habitually seeking the lines to the rite, but it wasn’t until the reckoning had finished that she made a sound. “The lot has been drawn.”
The emptiness of the starling-black coated her mind like an icy dip in crude oil, an emptiness unlike any other. Generally, emptiness denotes the removal of something—it calls for a loss. This hollow, freezing starling-black had evolved in a land where even it had to be creative. It filled its prey, found the seams where something of use might one day be, and sowed its enfeebling influence from which emptiness would grow.
For Ashtadukht, it meant her call had been answered. She grinned a grin that might’ve once belonged to Waray. The host looked on confusedly. Each and every div recognized the rites of a star-reckoner; it’d been burned into their psyche, even if they’d never met one. And woe betide any div who did not respect the drawing of a lot.
When it seemed as if nothing would happen, there arose a murmuring accompanied by a score of derisive titters. And that’s when a glob of starling-black careened into the deflated ant. It didn’t splash, it just landed with a muddy squelch that sent ripples over its oily surface. A dozen more landed in the throngs.
Dead silence.
Ashtadukht stayed the lot. For the first time, she had control over it. She could have showered the ungrateful wretches, but that would have solved only her desire to do so, which restlessly encouraged her to let it rain.
She watched as the starling-black returned to its bulk in strands, as if it were being strung from a distaff to a spindle beyond the boundary of the void. With it, the deflated ant unravelled, too. What the starling-black intended to do with the spun divs no one knew—yet they knew it had its eldritch intentions, and that they were better left a mystery.
Once the last distaff had been spun, the divs all turned on Ashtadukht. This time, she’d ensnared them by her own hand, fashioned her own stage. That was the first step.
Waray rose, and appeared to have recovered. She cocked her head and flexed her fingers. “Blasted šo-wily axe is reallybeginningto ruffle my feathers.”
Ashtadukht handed it over with a shared nod. She turned her focus to the crowd. Those nearest backed away. “Feel inclined to take me seriously now?” she asked, daring another deflated ant to raise a point of contention.
“I’m not here to rub your bellies and get a coo out of you. I’m here because I want to kill some blighted star-reckoners. I thought—” She glowered at those gathered. “I thought I’d find many a like-minded div here. Now, I’m having second thoughts. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to topple every last star-reckoner and the nation they stand for. Any div with half a spine will join me, or I’ll see to it that whatever remains of their spine . . . won’t.”
This met with a chorus of fearful yet bloodthirsty approval—exactly the sort of approval she’d want from divs, Ashtadukht realized. She’d never aimed to be loved, and seeking that here would have been a great folly besides. Still, there remained a great many among the host who were not convinced; dissidents numbered as many as proponents, and that would not do. Fortunately for Ashtadukht, one of her prior alliances bore fruit.
The regular rumbling that issued from outside Down Below had the telltale tempo of the stride of something enormous. Ashtadukht pivoted in its direction, but her nearness to the outer wall didn’t allow her a view until a forty-armed div towered over her.
“Ashtadukht?” he asked, crossing all twenty sets of arms—each like a chain of barrels bulging with explosives.
The half-whore didn’t so much as blink. She did, however, nod.
This seemed to please the forty-armed div. “I hurried over the instant I heard.” He went to one knee like a ridge keeling over, and bowed his head respectfully. “I’m yo
ur slave, mistress. In this, I’ll follow you to the seven climes and beyond. Let news of our coming reach the star-reckoners so that they may tremble.”
Forty-armed divs were by make massive and by nature irascible—even by div standards. The positive side to this was that they preferred the seclusion of a hermitage to accidentally squashing entire families underfoot, mainly because no one was willing to clean up the mess. Like dormant volcanoes or hibernating bears, they would brood beyond the trifling misdeeds of their brethren, to emerge only when the effects of their last rampage had worn thin. Other divs appreciated this forgiving arrangement. Still, every forty-armed div, of which there weren’t many, had earned the awe and respect of their peers. They epitomized the pinnacle of divdom, redoubtable beasts in service to the Lie. Those who had misgivings now hooted and hollered along with the rest of the fey host.
Ashtadukht grinned, and for the first time in too long it reached her eyes. What it smeared there was another matter.
XIII
Having secured an army, Ashtadukht would have liked to summarily depart Down Below and the land of the divs with that fearsome force in tow. She could have. Her host would have gleefully marched on Iran now that they’d been rallied. Ashtadukht knew better. She’d always taken her time with her father seriously—or appreciated his experience anyway—and while she was by no means a general, she’d picked up a thing or two.
Foremost, that it’s all well and good to have an army, but knowing what to do with it is another affair entirely. Matters like logistics simply don’t occur to outsiders. They see siege engines and grim-faced ranks, the death thereafter, and too often, they are caught up in one or the other. To them, war is all valour and misery. That’s appropriate. But all that valour and all that misery rely on logistics if they’re to be done well: supplies, transport, workshops, provisions, arsenals, and upkeep all play an integral role in warfare. So it was that Ashtadukht forewent the riotous pouring of divs from the Neck of Arezura that both she and her host pined for, instead choosing to hunker down for months of preparation.
A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1) Page 28