ONE
Balance of Power
Lahmia, The City of the Dawn, in the 70th year of Basth the Graceful
(-1650 Imperial Reckoning)
The yellow silk roof of the Hall of Rebirth rippled like a great sail in the freshening wind blowing from the coast, and its polished cedar timbers groaned like a great ship at sea. The comparison seemed particularly apt, Neferata thought bitterly, given the legion of shipwrights that had been hastily drafted to build it.
Preparations for the great Council of Kings had gone on for three solid months, beginning on the very day that the fateful news had arrived from Ka-Sabar. Even as word raced through the winding city streets that the City of Bronze had fallen at last, and the long war against the Usurper had finally come to an end, King Lamashizzar was already digging into the city treasury in anticipation of his royal peers’ arrival. Commissions by the hundred flowed from the palace and descended like flocks of sea birds on the astonished city merchants and trading factors: jars of fine wine by the hundreds; casks of beer by the thousands; cunning gifts of gold, silver and bronze; bales of silk by the ton and a queen’s ransom in fine spices and rare incense.
And that was only the beginning. Swift trading ships plied the fickle seas between Lahmia and the Eastern Empire’s trading cities to bring back the finest, most exotic delicacies that the Silk Lands could produce, while the dockyards were stripped of every able hand to build a vast tent city on the Golden Plain. As spring gave way to summer it seemed as though every able-bodied man, woman and child was working feverishly to complete the king’s grand design.
When the rebel leaders finally arrived, in the last month of summer, they were met at the edge of the Golden Plain by Lamashizzar himself, at the head of a richly-dressed panoply of courtesans, artists, musicians and servants. After being showered with small gifts—from rings and bracelets to fine swords and splendid chariots—the rulers were conducted across the great, fertile plain to the sprawling city of silk tents set aside for their servants and retainers. The gentle breezes that caressed the plain turned the tent city into a rippling banner of festive colour: sea green for Zandri, gold for Numas, blue for Lybaras and brilliant red for Rasetra.
The royal processions descended upon their encampments with weary delight, and allowed a few hours to rest and refresh themselves before the celebrations began in earnest. Then, at sunset, Lamashizzar and his panoply summoned his royal guests with a blare of golden trumpets and led them in a triumphant procession through the streets of his city.
The people of Lahmia commemorated the end of the war for seven ecstatic days, and from the halls of the palace to the mean streets near the dockyards, the king’s royal guests were treated like saviours. They wanted for nothing, except perhaps a few hours’ rest here and there between revels and enough room in their baggage to carry all of Lamashizzar’s rich gifts back home with them.
It was only at the end of the week, when the king’s guests were thoroughly worn out and more than a little overwhelmed by the Lahmians’ wealth and generosity, that Lamashizzar convened the Council of Kings to decide the future of Nehekhara.
The great Hall of Rebirth had been built by the city’s carpenters and shipwrights in the space occupied by the palace’s grand royal gardens. In fact, the wooden structure encompassed the gardens themselves, creating the illusion that the council chamber was surrounded by a tamed wilderness. Brilliantly coloured songbirds, many imported at great cost from the Silk Lands, filled the space with music, while fountains burbled serenely just out of sight. Servants came and went along hidden paths, bearing refreshments to the guests, who sat around a huge, circular mahogany table in a clearing at the far end of the garden. The effect of so much vibrant, harnessed life on the desert rulers was nothing short of stunning.
The entire spectacle, from start to finish, had been calculated as carefully as any military campaign, Neferata understood. It was couched to tempt, seduce and intimidate the rulers of east and west, and muddle whatever alliances they might have forged against Lahmia’s interests. It was also stupendously, ruinously expensive. The city’s treasury was virtually empty. All of the wealth that their father Lamasheptra had so carefully built during the dark years of Nagash’s reign was gone. Their last reserves had been thrown away on a single, extravagant throw of the dice. There was not enough gold in the coffers to make even a quarter of the coming year’s payment to the Eastern Empire; if Lamashizzar’s negotiations did not bear fruit, the City of the Dawn faced certain disaster.
While the king gambled with his city’s future, Neferata was left to watch the proceedings from a broad balcony that spanned the rear of the great hall and overlooked the great council table. Her handmaidens lounged on silk cushions and ate candied dates while they gossiped in hushed tones about the scandals from the previous week’s celebrations. A delicate fog of incense curled just above their heads: nryrrh spiced with black lotus, to relieve the boredom. Servants knelt at the fringes of the chamber alert to the queen’s every need. A low table, with sheets of paper and an ink brush, had been hastily set beside her as she studied the visiting rulers from behind a polished wooden screen.
As precarious as Lahmia’s future might be, judging by the appearance of their guests it was evident to Neferata that the other great cities were in a far worse state. During his unnatural reign, Nagash the Usurper had recreated the Nehekharan Empire in principle if not in name, subjugating the other great cities through the power he held over Khemri’s hostage queen, Neferem.
For centuries, each city had been forced to pay tribute to the Usurper in the form of gold and slaves, driving them to the brink of ruin. When the priests of Khemri—at the urging of their superiors on the Hieratic Council in Mahrak—finally attempted to unseat Nagash and end his blasphemous reign, the Usurper retaliated with a terrible curse that struck down two-thirds of Nehekhara’s priesthood in the space of a single day.
It was that one act of infamy that finally caused the priest kings to rise up in revolt, but the Usurper fought back with dark magics and terrible atrocities that devastated the Blessed Land and slaughtered thousands. Yet even when the Usurper’s army was finally defeated, close to a dozen of his immortal lieutenants escaped destruction and continued to bedevil the land for decades.
Rather than celebrate their hard-won triumph at Mahrak, the Priest Kings were faced with a long, gruelling campaign of terror and attrition as they hunted down every last one of the Usurper’s minions. Since Nagash’s body had never been found, it was secretly feared that one of them still possessed the Usurper’s corpse and, if given the opportunity, might be able to restore the dreaded necromancer to life. It had taken ninety years to finish the task, slaying the last of Nagash’s immortals after a lengthy siege at Ka-Sabar, the City of Bronze.
The long years of war had left an indelible mark on each of Nehekhara’s rulers. They were gaunt from strain and deprivation that no amount of easy living could ever erase. Few wore jewellery, or gilt adornments on their robes of state, and the fine fabrics of their ceremonial attire seemed shabby and worn. Even now, amid the verdant luxury of the great hall, their expressions were haunted and fretful, as though they expected fresh horrors hiding in every shadow.
Neferata was vividly reminded of that night in the cellars, now decades past, when Lamashizzar and his cabal had returned from the war. And they’d scarcely fought more than a handful of battles, while these men and women have known nothing else their entire lives, she thought.
Yet as beleaguered and broken as these rulers might be, they were not to be underestimated, the queen knew. When the doors to the great hall were opened, Lamashizzar’s guests had filed through the gardens in solemn procession, led by the Priest Kings of Rasetra and Lybaras and the young Queen of Numas. Each of the three rulers bore a sandalwood box in their hands, and when they reached the great council table they set the boxes before the smiling Lahmian king and drew forth their contents.
The severed heads of Raamket, the Red Lord,
and Atan-Heru, the Great Beast, had been treated with nitre and the sacred oils of the mortuary cult, and looked much as they had at the moment of their deaths. Their pale skin was mottled with burns from the touch of the sun, and their lips were drawn back in savage, almost bestial snarls, revealing teeth that had been filed to points and stained brown with human blood. The third head, by comparison, was round and fleshy as a suckling pig’s, with small, beady eyes hidden by a thick band of kohl.
Memnet, the former Grand Hierophant of Ka-Sabar, who murdered his king and served Nagash in exchange for eternal life, had wailed like a babe as he was dragged before the headsman. An expression of craven terror was still etched on Memnet’s jowly face.
The heads still sat in the centre of the table, their hideous expressions turned to face Lamashizzar. The message—to Neferata, at least—was clear. We’ve done our part, while you sat in your city by the sea. Now you’ll help us rebuild, or there might be one more head on this table by day’s end. At this point, it was difficult to say whether Lamashizzar’s display of wealth had successfully undermined his guests, or simply strengthened their resolve.
The queen bit her lip in irritation. We should be deciding this on the battlefield, she thought. We can always make more soldiers. Gold is much harder to come by.
It was mid-afternoon. The council had been in session for almost five hours, during which time Lamashizzar enquired of the needs of each of his guests and made offers of assistance in the form of monetary loans and trade agreements. Dizzying sums of gold were haggled over, while scribes hurriedly drafted copies of proposals that would govern the flow of goods across Nehekhara for generations to come.
Trade with the Eastern Empire would rejuvenate the Blessed Land’s economy, and open up a vast new realm of markets for Nehekharan goods—and all of it would pass through the City of the Dawn. Each of the rulers had been given the chance to speak, and a brief lull had settled over the table while each of the council members took stock of their current positions. Off to the east came a distant grumble of thunder as a late-summer rain shower made its way towards the coast.
Neferata heard a rustle of cushions behind her, followed by a familiar cat-like tread as her young cousin Khalida came to sit beside her.
“Great Gods, is it finally over?” the girl asked, slumping theatrically onto the queen’s lap. “We’ve been trapped in here forever. I wanted to go out riding before the rain came in.”
Neferata chuckled despite herself. Khalida hadn’t the least interest in courtly gossip or affairs of state.
At fifteen she was tall and coltish, full of so much restless energy that even the sprawling Women’s Palace wasn’t large enough to contain her. She was much like her father, Lord Wakhashem, a wealthy nobleman and close ally of King Lamasheptra, who had secured a strategic marriage to Neferata’s aunt Semunet. Both had died when Khalida was very young, and according to tradition she had been returned to the keeping of the royal family until such time as a husband could be found for her. She was passionate about horses, archery—even swordplay—and had little interest in the finer aspects of courtly behaviour. Lamashizzar dismayed of ever finding a nobleman who would take Khalida, but Neferata was secretly proud of her.
The queen reached down and stroked the girl’s dark hair. She kept it in dozens of tight, oiled braids, like the Numasi horse-maidens of legend. “The real work has scarcely begun, little hawk,” Neferata said fondly. “Up until now, the council has merely argued matters of taxes and trade. Trivial matters, in the grander scheme of things.”
Khalida looked up at the queen. The goddess Asaph hadn’t blessed her with the radiant beauty that Neferata and most of the Lahmian royal bloodline possessed. She was striking, in a fierce, angular way, with a sharp nose, a small, square chin and dark, piercing eyes. She frowned. “Trivial compared to what?”
The queen smiled. “Compared to power, of course. The decisions made here will determine the balance of power in Nehekhara for centuries to come. Each of the rulers seated below us has their own idea of how that balance should be struck.”
Khalida took the end of one of her braids between her fingers and twirled it thoughtfully. “Then who decides which idea is best?”
“We do, at the moment.” And Lamashizzar had best exploit this opportunity to the fullest. Neferata took Khalida by the shoulders and pulled her gently upright. “Pay attention to something other than horses for a moment and I’ll try to explain.”
Khalida sighed heavily. “If it will make the time go faster.”
The queen nodded approvingly. “It begins with Khemri,” she said. “Since the time of Settra the Magnificent, the living city was the centre of power in Nehekhara. Even after Settra’s empire fell, the Living City and its mortuary cult exerted tremendous political and economic influence from one end of the Blessed Land to the other. Their interests were guaranteed before all others, and that translated to power, comfort and security. Next in line came Mahrak, the City of the Gods, then Ka-Sabar, Numas, Lybaras, Zandri, Lahmia and Quatar.”
“Numas was more powerful than Lybaras?” Khalida exclaimed. “They’re farmers, mostly. Lybaras had airships!”
“The Numasi provided the grain for most of Nehekhara,” the queen said patiently. “You can’t eat an airship, little hawk.”
“I suppose,” the girl said. “But what about us? Why were we so low on the list?”
Neferata sighed. “Because we were so distant from Khemri, for starters. Zandri was closer, and was somewhat richer due to the slave trade. And unlike other cities, we preferred to keep to ourselves.”
“But Nagash changed all that.”
“That’s right. Khemri is nothing but ruins now, as well as Mahrak, and most of the other cities suffered greatly thanks to the Usurper. Now that the war is over, everything lies in flux.”
It was then that King Lamashizzar’s voice rose above the muted murmur of the hall. “My honoured friend, Priest King Khepra; do you wish to address the council?”
A heavy wooden chair creaked as Khepra, Priest King of Lybaras, rose slowly to his feet. The son of the late King Hekhmenukep looked much like his illustrious father: he was tall and lean, with narrow shoulders and a square-jawed, hangdog face. Unlike his father, though, Khepra’s arms and shoulders were thick with muscle, and his hands and face bore the scars of dozens of battlefields.
Like the kings of Lybaras before him, Khepra wore a fine gold chain about his neck, hung with a bewildering assortment of glass lenses bound in gold, silver or copper wire. It was a relic from a more prosperous, peaceful age, when the engineer-priests of Lybaras crafted wondrous inventions for the greater glory of Tahoth, patron god of scholars.
The king nodded to Lamashizzar. “Great king, on behalf of your esteemed guests, I wish to thank you for this splendid display of generosity on our behalf. I’m also grateful to see that all of us have come together today to ensure the continued prosperity of our great cities, and the land of Nehekhara as a whole. It is a welcome beginning, but there are still very serious matters that require our attention.”
Neferata’s eyes narrowed. “Now it begins, little hawk. Watch the faces of the rulers around the table. How are they reacting to the Lybaran king?”
The young girl frowned, but did as she was told. “Well… they’re looking curious, I suppose. Politely interested.” She paused, her head tilting slightly to one side. “Except for the King of Rasetra.”
“Oh?” the queen asked, smiling faintly.
“He’s not even looking at Khepra. He’s pretending to sip his wine, but really he’s watching everyone else.”
Neferata nodded approvingly. “Now you know who is truly asking the question. King Khepra is speaking on Rasetra’s behest, while King Shepret can devote his full attention to gauging the reactions of his rivals.”
Rasetra and Lybaras had been close allies during the war, and had borne the brunt of the fighting from beginning to end. Whatever it was that Rasetra was now after, King Shepret could almost cer
tainly count on Khepra’s support in the council. She’d tried to warn Lamashizzar to find a way to drive a wedge between the two kings; if he didn’t one of the other kings wouldn’t hesitate to try.
Neferata turned to the table at her side and picked up the waiting ink brush. She wrote hurriedly in the sharp-edged pictographs of the Eastern Empire’s trading cant: Divide Rasetra and Lybaras, or they will outmanoeuvre you!
She paused, tapping the end of the brush against her lower lip as a thought occurred to her. King Khepra’s son is in need of a wife. Perhaps Khalida?
She plucked a pinch of fine-grained sand from a tiny box by the ink-pot and scattered it across the pictographs to help set the ink, then held out the page for a servant to carry downstairs to the king.
“While we now have plans in place to ensure the stability of our own homes, there are still three cities that are desolate and devoid of leadership,” the King of Lybaras said. “We cannot sit idly by and watch them fall to ruin.”
“Generous words from a man who just spent the last four years desolating one of the very cities in question,” Lamashizzar replied good-naturedly. The other rulers laughed at the gentle jibe, but for a moment King Khepra was put on the back foot. He faltered for a moment, unable to come up with a proper response.
“The city of Ka-Sabar is the least of our concerns at the moment,” King Shepret said in a flat voice. He was lean and muscular, with his late father’s broad shoulders, but where the legendary king Rakh-amn-hotep was stout and pugnacious, Shepret had the aquiline features of an up-country patrician.
Though he was just over a hundred years old, well into middle age, his thick black hair only showed a few streaks of grey, and his green eyes were as vivid and sharp as cut emeralds. “The Living City has lain in ruins for almost a century.” He set down his wine cup and turned his piercing gaze on Lamashizzar. “Now that the war is over, we must reclaim the city and restore the rightful order of things.”
02 - Nagash the Unbroken Page 4