Banisu leaned back and frowned, Lin’s question still lingering on everyone’s mind.
“I do want to be a real emperor,” Banisu said, and found he meant it. “Like my father,” he added, and felt a thrill at even mentioning the pyromaniac, the borderline heretical comment unremarkable in this new atmosphere of despair and indifference. “And my father’s father, and all the rest. You know, Emperor Matanori was only ten when he led the Battle of the Raven’s Bridge.”
“That was different,” Lin said.
“What was different?” Banisu leaned close. “Are you saying I’m not as brave as he was?”
“Easy, easy,” Lin said, eyebrows raised. “I just meant the situation was different. I’m not saying anything about your bravery.”
Banisu slunk back. “It wasn’t that different.”
Prasert made a small, slurping sound of approval. “I am glad you are taking to your shtudies,” he said, and spat out the window.
“Thank you, both of you. You’ve given me much to think on.” Banisu licked his lips. “Lin, I need to ask something of you. It won’t be easy.”
“Name it,” Lin said without a pause.
“The Prince of the Wastes was reported to be just east of Kintari territory. You’re from Luo Sareng; you know the mountains that divide us from the Veldtlands. I need a runner to request the prince’s services. I know you’re tired, but… you’re the only person I can count on for this.”
Lin was silent for a while. After a moment he unstrapped his helmet and held it between his hands. His face was sweat-stained and burnt from the hot sun, his black hair pulled back in a knot, a few strands hanging loose. He turned to look at Banisu and for a moment Banisu feared Lin would decline.
“It will take days to reach the mountains. Can I leave my armor with you?”
Banisu grinned. “Sure.”
“My bow as well, I think,” Lin said, untying his ornate greaves. “I will keep my short sword though. They say there are trolls in the mountains,” he said with a chuckle.
Banisu snorted. “We have real enemies to worry about. Thank you for this, Lin. The Prince of the Wastes could mean the difference in this war.”
Lin nodded. “I know. Well, at least I won’t be spending my days behind the wagons,” he added as he stacked the last of his armor together. “I’ll make much better time on my own.”
Banisu nodded. “I’ll get out as well.”
“You want your privacy?” Prasert asked, rubbing a silk sleeve against his misshapen mouth. Lin pushed his way out, the palanquin coming to a ragged halt, Banisu scooting over. Banisu shook his head at his uncle, following Lin as they exited the palanquin, startled guards and bearers glancing over in confusion.
“No, but I think it’s time I stopped just being carried along.” Banisu breathed in the dusty air. “It’s time I stopped being the baggage of the Three Clans,” he said, and marched down the crossroads, looking behind to see everyone staring at him.
“Come on,” Banisu said, whipping a hand forward in impatience. “Follow me. And for the gods’s sakes somebody drag that man up from the ditch. We’re an army, not a pack of drunks, and we have a war to win.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sellswords in Attendance
Prince Sharnipur swatted at a fly that kept bothering him and glanced at the Northerner next to him. They were sitting cross-legged in a simple and unfurnished room of sliding bamboo and oiled paper, and the two of them had both been kept waiting for some time. There was an open door that faced west into the rolling and picturesque Kintari countryside and periodically a Kintari retainer would pace back and forth and frown at them. The governor would see them, he had said. Eventually.
The prince slapped his thigh and grinned. He had killed the fly. The Northerner grunted as if in appreciation. Prince Sharnipur wiped his hand off as best he could. Strange, I’ve had scores of victories and I’ve even won a fair amount of personal duels. But an hour of sitting in a steamy room for some provincial governor and I’m celebrating the death of a fly. The prince decided to talk with the other stranger, out of boredom if nothing else.
“Where are you from?”
Beady eyes regarded him for a moment. “North.”
No shit.
“I meant what town.”
The man said something, a mouthful of syllables that sounded like he was hacking up a chicken bone. Just when Prince Sharnipur thought it was over the Northerner coughed out a few more for good measure.
The prince grunted. “Don’t know where that is. We fought with Young Raven. You know him?”
The Northerner seemed to think a moment. “Young… Raven.” A sudden light gleamed in his thick-lidded eyes. “Oh! Little Raven.”
The prince shrugged. “Told me it was Young Raven. Didn’t seem that little to me.”
“No, Little Raven.”
The man seemed to be considering his words, his unfamiliarity with the language clear.
“Other Raven, he king now. Very tall. So Little Raven.”
“Ah.”
The prince hadn’t been terribly interested in the politics or nomenclature of the north, his focus mainly being on the profits, which had been meager to begin with and eliminated entirely once Young Raven had been squashed by a mammoth in the very moment of his triumph. What an idiot. The prince wouldn’t make the same mistake with his next employer. It was no good bleeding for a man who goes and gets himself killed. Then nobody makes a profit.
“So you know him then? Young Raven?”
“Yes. Burned my village. Killed my wife and childs.”
A cold silence fell, chilled like the frozen north. The Northerner tilted his head, squinting in concentration, then nodded to himself.
“Children.”
“Ah.”
What do you say to that? It was just business?
“Bet you’re glad the other Raven won out.”
“Big Raven burned what was left. Didn’t like… other strong ones. We had to run. They killed many of my men. Used to be thane of a thousand. Big man in the north.” He shrugged. “Now family dead, thane of forty. Their family all dead. Look for work in the warm lands. Life is…” he seemed to be grasping for a suitable word. “Strange.”
Prince Sharnipur nodded. “Never had kids, myself. No wife neither.” He leaned back, thinking back now to the days of his youth in his father’s court. Thinking to the talk of marriage to the princess of the Alqunic kingdom, an assured succession once the old man had died. Then in fact he did die, and in that whirlwind of two days his younger brother had taken power and sent out his blades. Prince Sharnipur scratched his beard, lost in thought. “You know,” he began, but the Northerner cut in.
“You people in the warm lands. So very… making talk. Don’t like it.”
The prince frowned at the man. But he kept silent as they waited in attendance for the governor.
I hope we end up on different sides.
As he waited, the Prince looked westward, to the open plains and rice paddies of Clan Kintari. The mountains trapped a great deal more moisture here than in the arid wastes, and it was clear that the land was rich in agriculture. Through the open door, Prince Sharnipur followed the gentle slope of the landscape with his eyes, seeing the distant shapes of farmers and their beasts of burden working on their fields. It wasn’t much more than a dot, but he thought he saw a man coming down the dirt road far off in the distance.
That seemed quite a long distance to walk on your own to the Kintari border town of Luo Sareng. The prince had stopped his elephant and men in the jungle just outside of town and had proceeded alone to seek an audience with the governor to see if the man had an interest in hiring a private army. There was a creaking on the wooden porch outside that led into the street as the Kintari guard stood.
He said a few words to someone; the prince leaning forward to listen. Growing up in a noble court, Prince Sharnipur had developed a passable fluency in the language of the Three Clans, though it had been years
since he had spoken it. All he could make out was a greeting.
Another Kintari retainer stalked toward them now, wearing the tunic of the warrior caste, his contemptuous gaze already giving Prince Sharnipur the sinking sensation that they were unneeded. He looked at the Northern thane and then the Gutharan prince as if judging which chamber pot to empty first. His eyes fixed themselves on the Prince’s turban.
“What a strange hat.”
“I find it suits me well,” the Prince said, irritated and unwilling to discuss its significance. They think a sea monster turned into islands and yet it’s my turban that’s strange.
“I am seeking an audience-”
“The governor will see you now,” the retainer said. He sniffed. “You do not bathe in the East? Well, no matter. Don’t expect much, wanderer. We have little need of outsiders.”
The retainer escorted him out of the room and they walked through an ornate attached garden. The prince couldn’t help but marvel at the well-kept plant life and the swept stone pathway that the retainer walked through. Beside a tree squatted an elderly white-haired woman holding a small knife in one hand and a branch in the other.
The gardener stared at Prince Sharnipur in open amazement. The prince inclined his head toward her in respect. For a border town they don’t seem to get many foreigners. The retainer escorted him past a pond filled with carp and the croaks of frogs, which died down as they skirted the edge.
The retainer ushered Prince Sharnipur through the sliding bamboo and paper door of a small house that sat alone in the very midst of the gardens. The governor was seating on the floor, the small wooden desk in front of him the only furniture in sight, and nodded at the retainer. The man quietly exited and slid the partition shut. The governor seemed absorbed in a scroll he was reading, and so the Prince sat down cross-legged once more.
Would I have to wait even longer?
After only a few more moments the governor looked up.
“Rice yields,” he said.
The prince frowned. “I’m sorry?”
He wondered if perhaps his command of the language of the Three Clans wasn’t as good as he had thought. That seemed a strange way to start a conversation.
The governor tapped his scroll.
“We’ve had a good growing season. Now then. My retainer says you are a wandering swordsman looking for work.”
“Not… swordsman, governor. I command a company of war elephants and seasoned skirmishers from the Veldtlands.” And you could not imagine the expense. “My name is Prince Dharmender Sharnipur. Perhaps you have heard of me.”
A small cup of tea sat on the governor’s desk and he sipped at it as he listened.
“Yes, I have heard of you. Exiled by your younger brother, who seized the throne after your father’s death. You fought your way free through scores of your own countrymen. The Dread Prince. The Prince of the Wastes.” He sniffed. “Refugees from the east often speak of your… depredations.”
“I’m glad to hear of it.”
The governor sighed. “We are a peaceful people in the Three Clans. There hasn’t been war in…” he shrugged. “We have nothing for you,” the governor said. “Begone.”
At a gesture the retainer slid the door open. The garden pathway trailed through the garden and led directly to the long road west.
“But…” Prince Sharnipur considered his words.
What was the use of begging?
He found himself lost in thought now, staring at the countryside he had just been barred from. A flock of birds flew through the air in unison. A farmer and his ox pulled a plow along a field beside a rutted path. A runner was making his way to the castle on the same path. The croaking of frogs broke in once again.
“You’ll have to go,” the governor said, more firmly this time.
As if in a stupor Prince Sharnipur stood and filed out alone through the gardens. They no longer held any appeal to him. He walked back slowly toward where his elephant and men had camped in the jungle beside the road.
Prince Sharnipur considered and reconsidered his words. What he would say to the men. What he would say to the Corps as a whole. Where they could eat, if they could eat. If his private army would start to disband, the work of years slipping away in ones and twos. Where they could go next… if his men would even follow.
The prince barely blinked up as a young man rushed past him, bumping into his shoulder.
“Hey!” Prince Sharnipur yelled in irritation, but the man ignored him, sprinting toward the governor’s residence. The prince stared at his retreating back, wondering why he was in such a hurry. These Kintari bastards are so rude. At least I won’t have to deal with them. But where should I go next…
Prince Sharnipur paused, rooted in place as he looked back at the governor’s residence, and noticed the Northerner leaving by the same entrance. That had been a short audience. The Northerner looked even more sour than ever as he left. The Kintari retainer strode past him into the audience room, followed by the man who had been running down the road. The retainer seemed in a sudden hurry now, perhaps eager to finish his task and get back to loitering around in peaceful sloth.
Prince Sharnipur grinned slightly at the Northerner’s disappointment, but it soon faded. That’s just what we need, more competition. Perhaps I can have him meet an accident along the road. There are too many fishermen in this pond and no fish are biting.
Prince Sharnipur proceeded along the dirt road. He had thought it best to keep the others away from any probing guardsmen, who tended to take a dim view on armed foreigners. It was a few minutes before he reached the small creek that had marked their little camp, and he pushed through the foliage until he spotted the gray outline of Ranvir and heard the chatting voices of his soldiers.
He stepped forward into the small clearing and paused as he saw the men’s reaction. Sanjay and Anander smiled to see him, eternally confident in their commander’s ability. He hesitated, unsure how to break the news to his loyal soldiers, and looked at Dhamdalek. That was no help. The man radiated beatific calm as he patted the flank of Ranvir, who was gorging himself on a tamarind tree. The prince smiled sadly. How do I feed you after this, my brother?
“How was it, my prince?” Dhamdalek asked, finally breaking the silence.
“Saddle up Ranvir. We’re leaving.”
That was no answer, but the mahout seemed to get the message, nodding with dignity and gathering up the leather gear that littered the nearby jungle floor. Anander walked over to help. It would take all four of them to get the howdah cinched back in place, though it could be done with fewer.
Sanjay stayed rooted in place, watching the Prince with unshakable confidence.
“So,” he began, and then his eyes shifted behind the Prince, and he grasped the hilt of his sword.
The prince whirled around, hearing the rustle of the jungle behind him. Through the leafy vegetation a man stumbled forward, panting. The Kintari retainer.
“Wait!”
The retainer paused and clasped his hands to his knees, gasping to catch his breath. He looked up after a moment.
“We’ve just gotten a message. Terrible news. But… stay for a while, why don’t you. We may have need of your services after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Of Ships and Titles
It was midday before the scouts found a village, and the bickering of the pirates hauling the chest was beginning to drive Bekhar mad. He was eager for something to break the monotony, and grinned in anticipation as he saw his scouts returning. Lajos was one of Bekhar’s oldest acquaintances, a squat and broad-shouldered man, and he stood waiting in the middle of the game trail the pirates had been following for the last hour.
“Captain, we found a fishing village. But there are strangers there. Armed men.”
“Hangyul guards?”
“Not Hangyul.”
“Hmm…”
Bekhar pressed on, silent as he trailed through the jungle path, though he was followed by the
muffled oaths and jangling coins of those hauling the chest. The rest of the scouts were resting quietly in a small glade, peeking through the thick jungle. The faint sounds of a strange language could be heard, and as Bekhar peered through the underbrush he could make out the crude wood buildings and cooking smoke of a fishing village.
Wedging himself next to a palm tree, Bekhar got a sudden glimpse of a blue-coated soldier walking through the village carrying a shiny musket. The man’s face was dark, almost like those of the Southern Islands, but everything about his clothing and gear was unfamiliar. It was clear the man wasn’t from the Three Clans.
Bekhar took his time in thinking, and he soon spotted another glimpse of blue and flashing metal as another stranger in similar garb strode through the fishing village. The man didn’t seem particularly concerned or watchful and kept a wide berth from a villager as he walked through the narrow dirt streets. They didn’t seem to be raiders, but they certainly weren’t local guards either. Bekhar decided they must be traders.
If he had more men, he might have considered simply killing everyone, but he had more gold than men, and for that traders were invaluable. The chest-carriers had struggled up and set it down for a few moments of rest.
“Alright, everyone, listen up. There’s a fishing village up ahead, and there are foreign traders in the port. Now, I’m going to have you lie low at the forest’s edge. I will go have a few words with them. If they have something we can trade for, I will go back for the chest. If there’s trouble, I expect you to attack immediately. Just kill everyone. Got it?”
The pirates nodded, some of them slumped against the chest of gold. Behind them, Lajos scratched his head.
“What about raiding the fishing village?”
Bekhar thought a moment. “We’ll go through their huts later when the traders leave. But not yet if we don’t have to.”
The pirates nodded, satisfied with the thoroughness of the plan. Bekhar stood up, hefting his glaive on his shoulder. He would try to speak nice with them, but he wasn’t about to go empty-handed. Bekhar pushed through the forest until he reached a small rutted track and then followed it into the village, whistling a jaunty tune all the while.
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