“I see.”
Abbot Cibu and Lord Marshal Hangyul were very obviously whispering together. And so my enemies unite with not even an attempt at subtlety. Well, I had always expected it to happen at some point. I never planned on being a puppet for the clans and I know the histories as well as any other initiate. One way or the other, emperors rarely die natural deaths.
“Prince Sharnipur is expected tonight. Feel free to discuss any concerns you may have with him directly. I believe we can reach an understanding with the Prince. That will be all, General. As you were.”
The Emperor strode away from the startled assembly, and through the promptly opened door. Lin Karatsu hurried to his side and caught up with him after just a few strides. “What was all that about?” Lin asked in concern. “Your Emperor,” he added hastily.
“I’m not going to be a puppet forever,” Emperor Banisu responded. “Besides, it’s true. We won’t win this war hiding behind walls. We need someone like Prince Sharnipur!” He grinned mischievously. “Maybe I should make him Lord Marshal. What would they think then?”
“You can’t put a foreigner in charge! The clan leaders would hate that.” Lin shuddered. “Remember what happened to your dad.”
Emperor Banisu shrugged. “That was a lot different. Anyway, you met Prince Sharnipur? So what’s he like?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Subjugation
Bekhar looked over the ship’s railing and cast a fierce scowl down the river. Six days he and his men had spent crammed aboard the Hellfire, and though it was an impressive ship he was itching for action. They had stopped along the coastline from time to time as the ship’s crew asserted the supremacy of the Syriot Empire. All the takeovers had been peaceful, the handover taking place due to the smooth words of the Jade Sea Islander, and occasionally a demonstration of a musket volley directed at the jungle’s edge.
This cruise had been far too peaceful for Bekhar, and all they had to show for it were a few officially requisitioned chickens. Bekhar had spent a good portion of his days learning the basics of the language from a few patient Syriots but he had soon tired of that. He had thought it would be a simple matter to find a ship and claim it, but it seemed the Syriots had already cleared the seas.
Bekhar noticed the translator walk yawning up the stairs to spit over the port-side railing. The translator was a slimy one, Bekhar thought. The captain strode over to say a few words to the man and Bekhar decided to join them.
“Ah, Captain Bekhar,” the Syriot said, keeping his voice slow and even so Bekhar could pick up on the Syriot words. “Fancy joining Mr. Vermilies on a walk down the river?”
Bekhar didn’t know what ‘fancy’ meant, but he got the gist of it and wanted to stretch his legs. He nodded as Captain Salassi continued talking with the translator, handing the Jade Sea Islander a decorated silk cloth Bekhar took to be the Syriot flag.
“If you run into any locals just give them the good news. No heroics. Report back if you run into any towns here. It’s damned hard to see past this jungle and our maps are useless in these parts. We can land marines if we have to, but we have a schedule to keep, so try to keep things brisk.”
“Brisk is how I do it, Captain. We’ll be back in no time.” The translator nodded toward Bekhar and spoke in the dialect of the Three Clans. “You can do the rowing.”
The Hellfire had four small rafts on both sides of the ship and it didn’t take long before they were off towards the muddy beach.
“Why do you work for these Syriots?” Bekhar asked, ceasing to row as the raft glided to a slow halt in the muddy bank. “Aren’t you Jade Sea Islanders still at war with them?”
“Not my island,” the translator, smooth as silk. “Besides, you work for them too.”
Bekhar had frowned, too proud to agree but not so stupid as to point out what everyone seemed to know. The pirates weren’t really working for the Syriots. They were out of the jungle, sailing on one of the most powerful vessels Bekhar had ever seen, and drawing a salary as “colonial militia,” whatever that meant. It was just an arrangement, and it could be broken easily. The translator was too smart to be fooled, and Bekhar figured the captain and crew had their suspicions as well.
“Well, you’ve worked for them longer,” Bekhar muttered, an unsatisfactory rebuttal. The translator was already wading in the muddy bank, treading his way into the jungle. “What’s in it for you, anyway?”
Vermilies paused, scanning the surrounding area, as Bekhar shipped his oars and clambered onto the beach. As far as he could tell it was utterly deserted.
“The Three Clans will fall,” Vermilies said after a minute, once he was certain the beach was clear. “Best to pick the winning side, isn’t it?”
“That’s the only reason?”
Vermilies fixed the pirate with a skeptical gaze. “Don’t tell me you decided to join up because of your high ideals and your love of navy discipline.”
Bekhar spat, and joined the translator at the edge of the jungle. “Oh, I’m all about ideals. Now let’s go looking for the locals so we can take what they have.”
The sloping sandy beach jutted into the jungle, a natural path following a stream as it wound its way to the sea, and it didn’t take long for them to notice the low cooking fires and idle chatter of a secluded fishing village. Vermilies gestured to Bekhar and the two of them huddled together.
“Sneak around back there. I’ll come through the front.”
Bekhar’s beady eyes regarded the translator for a moment.
“Why?”
“Just trust me,” Vermilies said, smiling to himself. “I have a plan.”
◆◆◆
There was great consternation when the slim Islander entered the village, a small hamlet that had no name, confusion that turned to merriment as the stranger attracted everyone’s attention with a series of tricks. He juggled a few knives, sang a few tunes, and within a couple minutes had the entire village gathered around him in curiosity.
“Where are you from?” A small boy asked. “Are you one of those Jade Sea traders?”
“Oh, of a sort. But I come representing a mighty empire across the vast ocean. The Syriot Empire is here and they will have your village,” he said as if it were simple fact.
There were a couple titters at this and frowns from some of the more stout-hearted folk. Vermilies made a mental note of them.
“I don’t see them here!” one woman shouted.
The stranger merely smiled. “Have you heard of Black Bekhar?”
Moans and grumbling answered this and the Islander’s smile broadened further.
“Yes, perhaps you know a little of him. But let me tell you more.”
“Hang on there,” one man began to cut in, but the stranger ignored him.
"Throughout the Three Clans there is not such a one as Black Bekhar. A hundred and one ships he has seized. A dozen Qathari champions he has met in personal combat, and a dozen weeping widows he has left behind. They say the blood he has spilled at sea has kept the sharks fed for years. Drowned he was, some say, a half-dozen times. He diced with Death in the Underworld, won and stayed to dice some more and took one of the Grim Reaper's fingerbones for good measure. They say he wears it on a cord along with shark teeth and sometimes dives into the night sea, naked and alone, to commune with the dead below."
"Mmm," one of the women said, almost to herself. One man frowned at her but she didn't appear to notice.
"But that's not all!"
The crowd pushed forward to hear better. There were footsteps in the distance, doubtless a new arrival eager to hear the story. But the crowd took no notice as the islander weaved the yarn about the dozen man-eating lizards of Kearny Island.
"But!" The islander grinned now in genuine merriment. "There is something you don't know about Black Bekhar. Something, I think you'll find, that is even more exciting."
Giggles broke out from a couple children, and the adults shared smiles. This strange man, with his claim to r
epresent the Syriots, had attracted some concern at first but it was fast approaching a family outing. Most of the men had even discarded their clubs and rusty swords and were completely at ease. This would be a tale they would tell future generations. And like all good tales it had a twist.
"Gather close. Yes, even you at the back there. Especially you. Now then." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "The thing you need to know about Black Bekhar is..." he grinned.
"What?" a small child piped up, unable to stand the tension.
"That..." the islander looked close to laughing now, but he mastered himself. "He is... standing... right behind you!" The man said with a jolt as he pointed to the back.
There was a burst of laughing from a few of the women and children, but it soon petered out.
At the edge of the gathering, not two paces away from the nearest villagers, a distance that soon increased as they staggered back, stood Black Bekhar himself, grinning wildly with the glaive along his shoulder. He raised his left hand, sending a lurch through the crowd, and idly picked at something in his teeth. He examined the contents in an eerie silence that lengthened before flicking it to the ground. Bekhar, still grinning, hefted his glaive.
"S'a good story. Should have mentioned the shark I killed though. Ah well, next time." With one arm Bekhar languidly extended his glaive out.
“So. Who wants to die first?”
◆◆◆
Trooper Kale squinted over the railing as Captain Salassi continued pacing along the deck. The trooper rubbed his eyes and blinked but the view remained unchanged.
"Uh, Captain. That's... uh. Our flag."
"What? That’s impossible."
“You’re right, sir. That’s very astute of you and it must be a mistake on my part. It’s just that it’s sticking out of the jungle over there.”
The trooper pointed into the distance.
Captain Salassi ceased his pacing and stared for several long moments.
“Hmm. So it is.”
“Must be a mirage, sir. You know, I’ve heard of those. They say in the Veldtlands-”
“That’s enough, trooper.”
Out of the jungle emerged Bekhar and Vermilies, both of them leading small pigs by coarse jute ropes. They boarded the beached raft with their prized cargo and soon made their wobbling way back aboard the Hellfire where they were greeted with a profoundly puzzled look by the captain of the ship.
“Mr. Vermilies, kindly inform me why the flag of the Syriot Empire is sticking out of the canopy.”
“Ah. Well, you see, it turns out there was a small village nestled in the jungle there. Nothing worth bothering your marines for. And, wouldn’t you know it, some of the locals do quite fine needlework when pressed to it.”
“Ah.” Captain Salassi finally smiled. “Hearts and minds, eh, Mr. Vermilies?”
“That is indeed where Captain Bekhar applied most of the pressure, sir.”
“It is good to see you two getting along so well.”
Vermilies gave a wry smile and glanced at Bekhar beside him. “Right…”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chickens
The ferrywoman sat alone and watched the work continue on the ferry station. Over the chaos of the last week, the Syriots had demanded more ferries be built, and now she just kept a wary watch from a distance. The carpenters were sawing away, pausing only to swap jokes and cackle, the intermittent cacophony of hammering and sawing somehow pleasant to the ferrywoman’s ears.
A bright teal kingfisher was darting among the willows, its head bobbing, turning to watch the ferrywoman for an instant before flying off. The ferrywoman cooed to it from a gap between her teeth and chuckled to herself for an old woman’s idle silliness. Footsteps rustled in the distance and she turned to see one of the villagers approaching. Tien, one of the farmers in the hills along the northern periphery of town, and by the set of her jaw she was not in a good mood.
The ferrywoman smoothed her skirts as she rose to her feet, a certain sense of foreboding rising along with her, but she muttered a Farensi prayer as she waited. The ferrywoman had the distinct impression she would need to help resolve another problem with the Syriots today. That had been happening a lot lately.
“Grandmother Liu,” Tien began without preamble, “Two of my chickens have gone missing. I think they took them,” she said, frowning as she waved to the Syriot encampment. A few stockades had formed, Syriot workmen taking to their own cacophony of construction, and a banner had emerged from the middle of their encampment just days ago.
“They were taken today?”
“Today or last night. I hadn’t noticed until just now.”
The ferrywoman squinted at the Syriot encampment. She had no great desire to talk to them.
But someone has to.
“They can’t just walk in and take what we have,” Tien said in a huff, breaking into the ferrywoman’s thoughts. “We’re not aristocrats who can toss coins at our problems. You’ll talk with them, won’t you, Grandmother Liu?”
“Yes, yes.” As if it were an easy task she is asking. “Of course.”
But there was nothing for it but to take one step after another, and before long she was at a gap in the nearest stockade. The Syriots had noticed, of course, the workmen in their plain clothes having retreated as if from an army of elephants, and now the ferrywoman found herself hesitating on the very edge of the camp.
Then she crossed through, and found herself squinting at a party of Syriots walking close.
“Stop and come no further,” one of them said in passable Standard Dialect.
“I’m looking for chickens,” the ferrywoman replied. At the head of the party of Syriots was a small man with curly graying hair. On his nose was a bizarre piece of jewelry Grandmother Liu had never seen before; two glass circles in front of both eyes with a wire mesh, pinched to the nose, holding the glass circles in place. He stared at her in puzzlement.
“Chickens? Who are you?”
“I am Liu, headwoman of this village.”
The Syriot adjusted his eye jewelry. “Ah, the headwoman. I am Major Konstantos and have the honor of being quartermaster of the Tamani Occupation Force.”
“Occupation,” the ferrywoman replied dully.
“Yes.” He paused. “Occupation is the right word, yes? For taking over?”
“That is the right word.”
“Good,” the man said with a crinkling smile, giving him the appearance more of a friendly clerk then an invader. “I sometimes have trouble with the tones.”
The ferrywoman nodded politely. “One of my villagers lost two chickens. She suspects they were taken by your soldiers.”
“Ah.” He paused and frowned. “I’ve heard nothing of that. But, perhaps, it is possible.” He trailed off in thought and the two stood there for a long moment. Two Syriot soldiers stood behind Major Konstantos, their sleek muskets lowered, blue uniforms partly unbuttoned in the oppressive heat.
The ferrywoman sucked worriedly at a tooth. But it is my responsibility.
“Perhaps compensation might be offered. For her loss.”
The Syriot blinked, and felt for his pockets as if he had forgotten something. “Oh. Very well,” he said, pulling out a few coins and puzzling at them a moment. He shifted two of them into his left hand. “This should settle things. I mean to start off this occupation on the right foot.”
Major Konstantos dropped two small silver coins into the ferrywoman’s outstretched palm. They were round, but lacked the inner hole, so they could not be strung up in money belts. The coins seemed of a shoddier design, useless to those without pockets, but at least seemed freshly minted.
“Where can we use these?” the ferrywoman asked in puzzlement.
“Oh, well, here,” the Syriot said with a laugh. “Soon enough, anyway. Soon enough.”
The ferrywoman examined one of the coins. She saw the profile of what appeared to be an elderly Syriot man and some scrawling marks that must have been their l
anguage.
Not that I could even read my own.
The man smiled paternalistically. “Isn’t our Emperor majestic?”
The ferrywoman blinked. Our Emperor? She looked at the coin again. That will take some getting used to.
“You know, you’re quite lucky,” the Syriot continued. “These lands lay right on the trade routes and once we find the spices we’re after I imagine this island will be developed. Do you have family here?”
The ferrywoman hesitated. All her family lived on the mainland now, where the war still raged, and it was all she could do not to think about it. “No.”
“Oh? That’s a pity. The changes that are coming to this island! It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to this land.”
The ferrywoman said nothing. After a moment she raised her hand in salutation. “Thank you for the gift. This will smooth things over.”
“Please notify me if any other incidents occur,” the major said as she left. “I will not have it said that I am overly cruel with the natives. This isn’t Serangali, after all!” He chortled to himself.
The ferrywoman frowned as she passed the stockade. Serangali was one of the most outlying islands in the Jade Sea and a distant memory came to her from decades ago, swirling gossip and hushed whispers of a massacre. For a while it had been the talk of the town. Then, as with all things, the years had replaced it with different subjects of conversation.
A few hundred steps later and the ferrywoman crossed the gap between the two worlds, an open clearing beside the forest that covered the center of the island. Tien was watching as she approached but several others had gathered in curiosity. Even the sounds of work from the nearby ferry had all but ceased.
“So? Did you get them?” Tien asked, though of course she saw that the chickens weren’t there.
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