The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  “What brought him down?” I wondered.

  “All my senses tell me he was a great ruler, which what I have heard of his palace is obvious. My senses also say he ruled wisely if firmly. So I wonder why he was overthrown. How and why?”

  “Perhaps he’ll tell us.” I said.

  “Perhaps he shall. Before he lets us know what he wants. Because no ruler, no matter how godlike, no matter how long since he lost or gave up his throne, is ever content with his lot. All we can do, though is let the wind carry us, just as we have had to do since we fought the Archon.”

  “And do you sense any sign of him?”

  “No,” Gamelan said. “At least that’s a relief. Not since . . . since I woke blind but still feeling his presence. I have almost managed to convince myself that was a hallucination.”

  “Almost,” I said. “I wish you were certain.”

  Gamelan’s lips quirked, but he didn’t answer me. Instead, he took me by the arm. “Young Rali, we have a banquet to attend. Sit close beside me, to make sure I don’t put my fish on the meat plate. You can be my eyes.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, my tone very dry, “you want me to be your eyes just for etiquette’s sake.”

  “Why Captain,” he said archly. “What other reason could there be?”

  We laughed, and then I shouted for my troops. It was time for the banquet.

  * * * *

  The meal was maybe not the oddest I’ve ever eaten, but it was well up on the list. The dining room was a wide marble hall, hung with tapestries showing deeds as heroic and grotesque as those on the bas-reliefs on the passages leading up to the plateau. There was room and to spare for all of us — in fact, the entire expedition as we set out in pursuit of the Archon could have fit comfortably into the great chamber. The dining room was as splendid as any I’d ever seen, as rich as the great Banquet Room in the Citadel of the Magistrates, back in Orissa. The chamber was brightly but not harshly lit, yet no one could see any sign of taper or torch. Similarly, there was music playing, but there was no orchestra in view, nor curtained anteroom where one might have been hidden, at least not that I could see.

  As The Sarzana promised, we were seated sailor next to officer, slinger next to legate, and, indeed, the conversation was more interesting than most court banquets I’d been forced to attend in Orissa. This was a custom worth adopting.

  I’ve just notice my scribe frowning, wondering why I said the banquet was so strange, yet haven’t given him any reasons for saying that. I could remind him of our circumstances, how but a day earlier we’d been storm-tossed waifs on deadly seas, or how this man, sitting at the head of the table between Gamelan and myself, with Cholla Yi and Stryker on the other side, seemed the only human living on this island. But such knowledge wasn’t necessary to make the night bizarre.

  The servitors accomplished that all by themselves. All of them were the beast-men like the flutist or the rider who’d presented The Sarzana’s welcome. They were dressed even more oddly than the rider, however. They wore various costumes, all expensive, some in jeweled women’s gowns, some in rich robes such as a magistrate might wear, others in gold-laid armor that a general might envy.

  The Sarzana noted my interest. “This is my conceit,” he explained. “Or, rather, one of them. Each of my servants is dressed like a member of my court. So I am surrounded by the same lords and ladies I was in the past. Except,” and his light tone grew bitter, “I do not have to await betrayal, as I did in another palace, in another time.”

  I nodded, realizing, like any storyteller, The Sarzana was preparing the way for his tale, and I wondered when he would choose to tell it.

  In spite of their clumsy regalia, the beast-men were most efficient, never allowing a plate to remain in front of a diner when she was finished, nor a goblet to be empty for longer than it took to be refilled from a golden pitcher.

  I remember each course of that meal very well, each accompanied by a different, perfectly-chosen wine. We began with various dishes intended to whet our appetite: richly seasoned liver pastes on bits of bread; shellfish raw in their shells or baked with bits of pork or vegetable; spiced vegetables. Next were ortolans — little birds force-fed until they were butterball fat — baked in a wine jelly, each one but an instant, vanishing mouthful. Then there was salmon, a great fish to every few diners, served smoking hot, the grill marking its flesh, and a dill and butter sauce to complement it for those who wished more seasoning. For myself, a dash of fresh lemon was enough. Then came a wild mushroom soup, with as many varieties of mushrooms in each cup as I have ever seen, each having its own unique savor, as if cooked alone.

  The main course came next — great haunches of a game animal, served with a jelly of tart crabapples and berries, and larded with salt pork. I asked The Sarzana what the animal was, and he told me a species of single-horned antelope that lived on the north of the island. “A huntsman’s challenge,” he said, “since they never congregate in herds, but live solitary lives. I know nothing about how or when they mate.”

  “You yourself hunt?” Polillo asked, from her seat down the table.

  “I do not,” The Sarzana said. “I would find myself puffing and panting, looking like a portly fool who’s trying to become an imbecile, dashing through the woods chasing something he’d just as soon first meet on a platter at dinner. My servants hunt for me. Hunt and fish.”

  “We saw no signs of boats,” Polillo said. “Do your . . . servants hunt from the shore?”

  The Sarzana smiled. “These . . .” and he gestured around at the beast-men, “. . . are not the only ones who’ve chosen to serve me. There are dolphins . . . seals . . . hawks . . . others who have chosen to serve me.”

  I suddenly remembered the two dolphins, swimming abreast, under our ship as we approached the island. Was that a net I’d seen them hold in their mouth and the emblem a diadem such as the beast-men-men wore?

  “Chosen?” Gamelan said, gently.

  “I admit,” The Sarzana said, “to having prepared the ground with a spell or two. But what of that? These creatures live far better lives than they did before. Then they hunted and were hunted, lives no longer than an instant. If they sickened, or if storms tossed them, they were helpless. Now, in exchange for performing small favors for me, most of which, such as fishing, were already part of their bestial habits, their lives are happier and gentler.”

  I wondered if any beast, taken from the wild, is happier, but said nothing. This was an argument I’d heard from zookeepers as well. Gamelan, too, had no comment.

  The meal continued. Almost everyone was on his or her best behavior. All of my Guardswomen had been cautioned to remain sober and I noticed none of them, not even Cliges, my most notorious drunkard, did more than sip at their wines. Three or four of the sailors, however, being sailors, decided to seize the moment. One of them got so rapidly in his cups I heard the beginnings of a song coming from that table. The Sarzana appeared not to notice, nor did his casual, clever dinner conversation change. But I saw him glance at the budding drunkards and as soon as he did, they became quiet.

  One of my women said later the sailors, did, indeed, grow instantly sober, but shuddered and shook, as if they underwent the throes of a seconds-long hangover before they did. It was obvious The Sarzana controlled his dining with more than courtesy.

  Our meal finished with various tarts — fruits, berries and such, accompanied by an assortment of cheeses such as I’d never tasted.

  Just as I finished, there came a babble. My Guardswomen and the sailors were getting up, and, most politely, taking their leave, just as if we were at the end of a barracks meal, and the last of the wine had been drunk. Outside, I heard the shouts of the sergeants forming them up. Before I could do more than gape, I heard them marching away, across the plateau.

  The only ones remaining in that vast chamber were Cholla Yi, Gamelan, Corais and myself. I felt alarmed for a moment, then noted, just in the entranceway, Sergeant Bodilon, who’d I’d assigned wi
th Corais to stay up here with The Sarzana. On either side of the doorway were two guards, each with her spearbutt braced beside her, looking most alert.

  The Sarzana looked at me. “Captain Antero. Forgive me for overstepping my bounds. But I rather assumed your women would be happier returning to their quarters. They’ve had a most long day, as have had your sailors, Admiral Yi.”

  For some reason, neither of us objected, nor were we alarmed by The Sarzana’s magics. That warm, rich feeling that had marked the day sat about our shoulders, like a welcome wool cloak on a winter’s night.

  “Now,” he went on. “If we can adjourn to another room, we can continue our conversation. I know almost everything about you. I know you, and your homelands. I know of your pursuit of your great enemy, and his destruction. I know the perils you have overcome crossing these seas. And I know what lies ahead . . . But you know nothing of me.”

  He smiled. “Now, that shall change . . . Now I shall tell you my story, of how I came to be The Sarzana and of the evil that brought me and the great civilization of Konya down.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE RULER OF KONYA

  The Sarzana turned and walked away through the banquet hall. He gave no command nor invitation, but the four of us knew we were to follow. Corais took Gamelan by the elbow, and we threaded our way through the tables. The beast-men were busily cleaning up, and paid us no attention.

  We walked down a long hallway that reminded me of a museum — there must’ve been a hundred items, from paintings to sculpture to colorful costumes on the wall, each coming from a different culture.

  We went through an archway into a circular room with a round fireplace in the center. In spite of the evening’s balm, a fire blazed, but I felt no unpleasant warmth coming from it. Comfortable couches sat around the fire, and there were small tables near each couch set with glasses and bottles.

  “I used a small bit of divination to determine what each of your favorite tipples is,” The Sarzana said, trying to assume the casual gaiety of his earlier conversations. “I trust you will forgive my intrusion.”

  We seated ourselves, and I recognized the flask in front of me — it appeared to be an exact duplicate of Talya, the sweet dessert wine the Antero estates has produced for some generations only for their most honored guests. We made it from grapes allowed to shrivel on the vine, then picked at the height of their ripeness, each grape taken from its stem and placed into a vat, and the grapes crushed by their own weight. For an instant I forgot where I was, and my eyes blurred, remembering what was so far away, and, I was beginning to fear, unattainable. The last time I’d had this wine had been years ago, when the harvest had been plentiful enough to justify the making of Talya, since it was incredibly wasteful. I’d shared the flask with Tries in the days when there was nothing but silken love between us.

  I turned my face away so The Sarzana wouldn’t see tears touch my face. Cholla Yi harrumphed, and said something gruffly about how pleased he was Lord Sarzana could produce the finest drink of his homeland, a distilled concoction of cherry pits it seemed not many had the palate to appreciate.

  “Not Lord,” The Sarzana said, “if you please. My title, to all Konyans, needs no further embellishment.”

  I nodded to myself. One of Gamelan’s questions had been answered. I used the tip of my dagger to peel the wax sealant off, pulled the cork, poured a bit of the wine and tasted. I hid a smile. The Sarzana’s magic wasn’t quite perfect — there was a hidden tartness to this vintage our own grapes never held. But I had to admit the effect had been startling, and the wine’s taste was quite pleasant.

  “This room,” The Sarzana said, “I use as a reminder of what once was. Look about you.” Two of us turned, but I did not, keeping my eyes fixed on The Sarzana’s hands, as Gamelan had taught me to do when watching a sorcerer — right crossed over left, turned palm up, and fingers beckoning. I had the gesture, but thought it would give me nothing, since I saw his lips move in the incantation, but I couldn’t make out the words he spoke. Then I turned to see.

  The spectacle he’d evoked took me. We were in the midst of the sacking of a great palace. The walls were hung with tapestries, roaring in flames. I saw beautiful women, screaming and being dragged off by drunken men. I saw looters carrying away finery, or tearing or shattering it for the sheer love of destruction. I saw soldiers in armor: some sprawled in death, having fulfilled their last duty; others had turned their coats, and become looters. I saw men, and women too, dressed in the finery of the ruling class, ordering the mob in its destruction. Then there was nothing but marble walls, the marble worked with threads of exotic minerals.

  “That was the day of my downfall,” The Sarzana said. “That was the day I lost everything. “And that was also the day my beloved Konya lost its last chance of greatness, freedom and peace.” I saw his lips tighten, as he fought for and regained control. “I keep this memory fresh,” he continued, “because I do not want to soften, here in my long exile.”

  “Perhaps,” Gamelan said in his low, but commanding voice, “you should begin by telling us what you ruled.”

  The Sarzana’s lips curved. “Thank you, Lord Gamelan. I shall. I am not accustomed to tale-telling, and I forget that not all the world knows of Konya and its once greatness.”

  He sat down at a couch, and poured a goblet of what appeared to be water from a clear pitcher.

  “My kingdom,” he said, “is far to the south of us and if you will forgive me for waxing poetic, I think of it as jewels spilled across the seas, since it is composed of many thousands of beautiful islands — whose center is Isolde, the most lovely gem of all. It is from here that the kingdom has been ruled since time began. The islands have every climate imaginable, from desert to coral atolls to high glacial mountains in their reaches to the furthest south, which remain unexplored. Isolde itself is about three weeks sail under strong winds.”

  “So many islands,” Cholla Yi asked, “are they all peopled?”

  “Most of them,” The Sarzana said. “And this is the great tragedy of Konya. It sometimes seems as if each island is its own nation, a nation entirely different from its nearest neighbor. Worse, each island is perpetually at war with the other.”

  I saw Cholla Yi smile, and knew what he was thinking — if each man’s hand is turned against his fellow, there is rich takings for a pirate.

  “We Konyans,” The Sarzana went on, “have only one thing in common: we are hot-blooded and fiery, quick to judge, love or hate. There’s a proverb — ‘with a Konyan beside you, you shall lack neither friends nor enemies.’ I fear it is true.”

  “A hard land to rule,” Corais said.

  “It is . . . was, indeed.”

  “Were you born to the throne?” Cholla Yi asked.

  “I was not. Like your Evocator, I was a fisherman.” I glanced quickly over at Gamelan, and saw him suppress a start. “Perhaps,” The Sarzana continued, “I misspoke. My family was less masters of the net and line than expert with our boats and, just as importantly, the marketplace. My family owned five smacks, and another ten families owed us fealty.”

  “You outreach me,” Gamelan put in. “We had but a single boat to fish the river, not the sea, and we owed money on that one to our village’s lender.”

  “Perhaps,” The Sarzana said, “I would have been happier if that had been my position as well, for I never would’ve ended up here on this forsaken rock. But I’m probably being naive — a man is, I believe, born to the throne, no matter if he is birthed in a ditch. Ruling is a destiny, not a profession.”

  Cholla Yi looked approving, and Gamelan frowned slightly, but none of us interrupted.

  “As I said, I was no different than a dozen other ship owners on my island, with but one exception: early on, my family recognized I had a talent for magic. On our island, unlike some other places, a witch or village wizard was respected, particularly if he had any of what we called the Weather Art. But what knowledge I gained was here and there. There was no
formal schooling to be gotten that I was aware of, unlike what I have divined your home of Orissa to have. Perhaps, if there had been more money, or if my family was higher in the social order, although we had no aristocrats to speak of on the island, I might have been able to go to Konya itself to perfect my art. But this wasn’t to be. Perhaps it was for the best, when I think about what happened to many of the lords and ladies a few years later. I reached my young manhood not much different from any of the others in my class. I did everything in my family’s trade, from fish-gutter to helmsman to harpooner to using my small Talent to feel where we might have the best luck casting our nets.

  “The misfortune of our island was it lay in rich waters on a main trade route leading to Konya itself. Rich waters with fish beyond count for the taking — but our seas were traveled by other sharks. Pirates, slavers, warships, even merchants who were nothing loathe to waylay one of our boats if they were short a hand or two. Everyone knew the men of the Island of the Shark were, they said, birthed with webbed feet and hands curved to fit an oar’s handle.

  “Every year five, ten, sometimes more islanders would vanish. Some would find their way back after a single voyage, others . . .” The Sarzana shrugged. “I, myself, barely escaped being forced into forced servitude half a dozen times, either by weather-luck or being able to feign disease or feeblemindedness when one of my boats would be stopped. Of course I never showed any sign that I might have a bit of the Talent to these raiders, or I would have been a great prize.”

  “Couldn’t your government help?” Gamelan asked.

  “Government?” The Sarzana sneered. “Our rulers were far away and cared little what happened to us, except when they sent a tax ship to levy a toll. That was as great a burden, some thought, as any pirate. Konya was ruled, or I should say mis-ruled, by a single family and its septs, whose blood had gone thin over the centuries. No, we could look for nothing except harshness from those who thought themselves fit to wear a crown.”