“Surprised, my lord?”
The God-King laughed sadly.
“You are ever the game-player, my dear. Ashar warned me about that from the start. But for all your wickedness, life here would have been duller without you.”
Asima frowned.
“Majesty, you speak as though the game were already lost.”
The God-King sighed and sat heavily on the couch.
“For your own good, you would do well to leave. I have already sent Ashar to collect the twins and ferry them to safety. I have seen the red stars from the observatory. My grandfather saw them the day before his death, you know.”
He sighed.
“Several of my satraps have risen against me with armies and fleets they have constructed in secret and I have not had enough warning to pull in allies. My fleet is lost on the sea floor to a surprise attack and most of the walls of Akkad are now under their control. The noose tightens around my neck, Asima, and if you are here when they come, you may well hang alongside me.”
Asima shook her head.
“You are a God, my love. They cannot kill you.”
A true laugh.
“I am well aware of my simple mortality, Asima, and I do not think that you believe in any God, regardless. No, I shall die tonight and I would have you away somewhere safe, but I am glad that I saw you once more. You would have won, you know? I just cannot resist you. You would have been Goddess and Queen had I lived. How sad.”
Asima found that she had a genuine tear in the corner of her eye.
“I shall go nowhere, my lord. I shall be by your side when they come.”
The God-King Amashir IV, absolute ruler of Pelasia and divine power smiled sadly.
“Then let us sit and drink wine while we wait.”
In which the wheel turns again
Asima gripped the arm of the chair so tight that she felt her nails cutting their way through the delicate satin cover, her knuckles turning white. A few feet away, the God-King sat with a sad, stoic calmness, his legs crossed and his gaze firmly affixed on the door. The sounds of vicious combat at the entrance to the palace had died away only moments before and the echoes of steel on steel still rang around the corridors of the residence. There was a pregnant pause as Pelasia held its breath.
“The time is upon us, my dear. Time to go.”
Asima shook her head and dug her nails ever deeper into the chair arm.
“It is no use making such a noble gesture, my love. I appreciate the thought, but there is no need now; your death would be pointless. Find somewhere to hide.”
Again, Asima shook her head, her face pale. She was wracked by uncertainty. This was exactly what she’d planned, when she entered the building, to do in these very circumstances, though she had also considered several alternatives. It was a calculated risk that, if the attackers succeeded, she would appear noble and loyal enough to stand out above all the other women who hadn’t come here. It was all about raising her profile before anyone else had the chance. But now there were feelings of regret and real loyalty creeping in and she hadn’t felt these emotions since the days of her youth in M’Dahz.
She sighed as the God-King turned to her.
“Consider it a last royal command if you must, Asima.”
It was almost worth arguing. Her profile was… something in Asima’s subconscious flashed her images of a potential future. She could see how clearly impressive she would look once the usurper had felled her master and she strode calmly from behind the curtains, looking regal, stunning and entirely unfazed by the horrifying events around her. If anything it would be all the more impressive.
With a sad smile, she reached out and grasped his hand. As she did so, the fresh sounds of battle broke out on the stairway and landing outside the apartments. The God-King squeezed her hand lightly, smiled once, and then turned back to face the door.
Asima stood and made her way across to one of the drapes that hung as a divider, separating the more intimate lounging area from this formal reception room. Her choice was hardly random. She had selected it as a possibility when she’d first entered the room twenty minutes ago. There was sufficient dark, heavy material to hide a full person thoroughly, with enough light, wispy, netted areas for her to be able to watch events unfold whilst unobserved. Moreover, given the drapes’ position between the two rooms, it was quite reasonable for one of the concubines to be in the intimate chamber rather than the reception room. With a quick glance at the door, she ducked behind the material and held her breath.
The wait was not long. The fighting at the head of the stairs was over almost before it began. Asima swallowed and kept herself still as she heard footsteps approaching the door.
There was a rattle and then a creak. From this position, she could just see the door’s edge as it opened and was so surprised at the sight that unfolded before her that she almost laughed. The satrap of Siszthad!
The satrap, one of the more powerful and yet certainly one of the least popular at court, had been absent from the seat of government for over two years, following an unfortunate incident involving a serving boy. He was, to Asima’s mind, one of the most thoroughly unpleasant and repulsive creatures the Gods had ever let loose in the world.
The man who made his way into the room was more than a head shorter than the God-King, so rotund that no armour would go round his bulk. He waddled more than walked and his complexion was oily and sick, his eyes small, dark and beady. In essence, he was everything the God-King was not. Siszthad jerked his head to one side, his neck making an unpleasant cracking noise and his top-knot swishing like a horse’s tail over his bald, shiny head.
His strange waddle was accentuated almost humorously by the clicking of the silver and ebony cane in his hand, like a third leg preventing the spherical nobleman from rolling over. Asima shook her head in wonder. Siszthad was wealthy and powerful with a lot of land, certainly, but… this? This unpleasant, piggy, little pox-hound had masterminded a coup that had felled a dynasty of four centuries’ standing? It seemed ridiculous.
The satrap came to a halt, sweating, before the God-King, who stood, slowly and regally, to tower over his usurper.
“Siszthad? This was never your doing. You have neither the strength nor the intellect for something like this.”
Guards in black began to enter the room, fanning out on either side of the two men. Asima growled under her breath as her view was partially obscured by the two in front of her. The satrap laughed, a high-pitched, feminine noise.
“Amashir…”
To Asima’s surprise, the God-King reached forward and gave the small man a backhanded slap hard across the cheek.
“You will refer to me by my title, you worthless piece of camel hide. I am God-King as long as I live, no matter what you do to me!”
“Easily solved” said an unseen person.
Asima jerked at that voice. As the guards had finished filing into position, two other men had entered to stand at the rear. One was a satrap she vaguely recognised; handsome and dark, a man of nomad blood from the deep desert regions. The other had been mostly obscure by guards and the drapes. She knew the satrap ruler of M’Dahz’s voice well, though.
“Ma’ahd!” the usurper squeaked. “What do you mean?”
“Oh for the sake of reason!”
Ma’ahd stepped forward, brushing the smaller man aside, and pointed to the nearest guards.
“This man was a King and a God, so make it quick, but do it now.”
There was a brief hesitation and then two guards stepped forward. One reached out for the God-King who made no attempt to defend himself. The guard grasped the God-King’s wrists and pulled his arms around behind his back. The tall, elegant ruler smiled at his three enemies.
“You are committing treason, murder and ostensibly deicide. The stars have a way of coming back round and taking their revenge on such people. Remember that. The stars will burn red for all of you, in time, so enjoy your reign for now.”
Without another word, and without waiting to be forced, the God-King bent at the waist, extending his neck. The second guard drew a long, curved sword with a horrible rasping sound and lifted it high above his head. Pausing for a second, he looked to the satrap of Siszthad for confirmation. Ma’ahd sighed.
“Just do it.”
Asima watched with a mix of hatred, awe and sadness as the living God that ruled Pelasia fell in two, his body crumpling and, as the guard let go of the wrists, slumping to the floor. The head rolled several yards and came to rest in front of the darker-skinned nomad satrap. Siszthad turned and addressed Ma’ahd in his squeaky voice.
“Burn the horrid thing. I want rid of anything that reminds anyone of that man!”
Ma’ahd shook his head.
“That is not enough, Siszthad. His head must go above the Moon Gate as a warning.”
The man who had plagued Asima for most of her life gestured to the guards and pointed at the head and the body. Without waiting for further commands, the men gathered the remains and began to carry them carefully from the room.
Behind the drapes, Asima’s head spun. She had been prepared for a usurper but not for a triumvirate, and certainly not for Ma’ahd. She could make her future secure with almost anyone, but this would complicate matters. How would they rule together?
She shook her head and concentrated on the three men who were now fully within the chamber. At a perfunctory gesture from Ma’ahd, the corpulent little man took the seat so recently occupied by the God-King. The dark satrap bent and, retrieving the simple gold circlet, passed it to the seated man.
Asima frowned as there was further activity at the door. As she watched, the high priest of the creator, along with half a dozen of the most important ministers in Akkad, was ushered inside at sword-point.
“Knees!” barked the darker satrap in a rasping, dry, desiccated voice that sent a shiver through Asima. The seven men dropped to the ground, those who were too slow aided in their descent with a blow to the back of the knees delivered by an unseen guard.
Ma’ahd smiled a smile that told Asima more than any words could.
“King Amashir is dead. I shy away from the title God-King, for clearly he was no such thing. There will be no more Gods ruling Pelasia; just men. You will now kiss the floor and accept the blessing of your new King, Paranes of Siszthad… Paranes I.”
There was a silent pause and Asima could imagine what was going through the minds of the seven men. The guards gave the witnesses a few random clouts with the hafts of their weapons; not enough to damage, but enough to goad them into action.
As the men gave their oaths of allegiance and collapsed, grovelling, to the floor, Asima shook her head. She would survive and probably even prosper. Ma’ahd and the other satrap were clearly intent on the power without the prestige; becoming the de facto power behind the throne. That meant they would be no immediate threat to Asima, as long as she extended the same courtesy to them. Siszthad would be the one to rule and he was no lover of women; he was known to have a thing for boys, and mostly for unwilling boys. If he ever sent for a woman from the harem it would probably be to produce an heir, but it was unlikely even that would make him do so.
He was a horrible creature, and physically repulsive, but he was also stupid, greedy and gullible. Asima would be able to claw her way to the pinnacle of Pelasian society just by playing the man. She…
A noise distracted her, and she swung her head to the private chamber behind her, tastefully decorated and furnished, and graced with three ornate windows and a balcony. Her heart in her throat, she realised the shouts of warning were coming from outside. What now?
Weighing her options, she sighed and moved as lightly as she could from behind the drapes, across the other room and to the balcony. Stepping outside, she glanced down into the grounds and took in the events below as shock made her grip the rail of the balcony.
Black-clad guards were running across the lawns, chasing a single figure on horseback. The horse was a magnificent white mare. She knew that, because she knew the rider. Prince Ashar raced for the stairs leading up to the walls near the gate and she found that she was urging him on; to escape. Strange that: Ashar had never trusted her; never been a friend to her, and yet she felt that on some unspoken level he understood and appreciated her. He was a conundrum, that one.
Other guards were closing the net. She realised with a hint of sadness that Ashar had been charged with saving the God-King’s twin boys and yet his hands were empty as he rode desperately, looking for a hole in the tightening net. Ashar would now be the last direct member of the Parishid dynasty; four hundred years of rule in Pelasia in the form of one man, fleeing the palace in the night.
As she watched, Ashar wheeled his horse, shouted something she didn’t quite hear, and raced toward the thinnest area of the cordon. Timing his move impeccably, the prince urged his horse to a jump and cleared the closing guards with ease. As confusion reigned and the black soldiers rushed around trying to change direction and follow their target, Ashar rode up the wide staircase to the top of the land walls.
Behind and below him, men ran across the lawns and began to climb the stairs, but Ashar had a strong lead on them. As other guards appeared from towers and ran out onto the walls, Ashar climbed dextrously onto the saddle of his horse, turned to face the palace, gave a last, elegant bow to the memory of his uncle, and dropped backwards out of sight, disappearing from the wall top into the street that separated the palace complex from the great circus.
The fall from there, forty feet down to hard paving, should be fatal, or critically-injuring at least. And yet, this was Ashar Parishid. In the years Asima had known the prince in Akkad, he had never once done anything foolish or without having planned it through first. The prince would be alive and well and leaving Akkad…
… for now.
She heaved a sigh of relief and turned to see the three lords standing in the room behind her, guards filing around the perimeter.
“Lady Asima, I believe” the satrap Ma’ahd smiled mirthlessly. “I am given to understand that you were one of Amashir’s favourites and that you were one of my girls from M’Dahz. It seems I chose well.”
Asima smiled meekly. No time to push things, now.
“My Lord Satrap.”
Ma’ahd nodded, deep in thought and then turned to a guard and gestured at her.
“Take her back to the harem; and while you’re there, do a complete count of wives, courtesans and other women. I fear we may have to perform a cull. Amashir had a broad palate.”
The look of complete unconcern on Siszthad’s face brought a mix of dry humour and disgust from Asima.
She could survive a cull. She had survived far worse.
Part Three: Cargoes
In which a new page of history begins
Ghassan shuffled his feet nervously and glanced sidelong at captain Jaral. In the past few years, their life had become surprisingly mundane.
The Pelasians seemed to have turned their attention west, toward their own people. The civil war there may have been quick and brutal, but the resulting peace had been long and just as brutal. For three years now Pelasia had cut off most of its remaining ties with the Empire or, at least, with the former territories of the Empire. Black ships had rarely been seen anywhere near the border zone, concentrating instead on keeping the new reign imposed on an unhappy and restless population.
Consequently, the only target for the militia was the pirates and, with what was essentially the closure of Pelasian waters and therefore a massive increase in Calphorian military concentration on anti-piracy activities, the villains were generally staying well away from the coastal regions and picking on the occasional brave merchant who crossed the open sea.
It had been rumoured that the Lord of Calphoris was considering reducing the size of his navy and pushing any spare militia into the land forces. The idealistic side of Ghassan approved of the move and realised that a reassignment to dry land could be a step to
ward his goal of directing the strength of Calphoris against M’Dahz. The practical side of him also realised, however, that since satrap Ma’ahd was now one of the top men in Pelasia, any move against them would likely result in Calphoris being squashed like an insect under the weight of the Pelasian army.
Also, frankly, he’d grown to love life at sea.
And so it was with some trepidation that he stood now with his captain outside the doors of the Lord’s council chamber in the palace of Calphoris. The next few minutes could change his life entirely; he could even be pensioned out. He swallowed nervously.
“Enter!”
Ghassan straightened his hastily-washed uniform and watched as the huge cedar doors swung slowly inwards to reveal the great court chamber of the provincial capital. The Lord of Calphoris sat at the far end not, as Ghassan had expected, on a high throne surrounded by vassals and servants and plotting campaigns on grand maps. The Lord of Calphoris was, in fact, sitting at a plain wooden desk with two elderly men and scribbling furiously while discussing something in low voices.
Ghassan looked around at the room. Large and high and fancy enough in which to hold great state occasions, the hall was certainly the largest single room Ghassan had even seen. Poles jutted from the wall high on both sides, having once held banners of some kind. The room was of white and yellow marble, with an inlaid and patterned floor.
He looked at the captain, who shrugged and gestured forwards.
The two men fell easily into step and strode with a clacking sound across the hard floor. As they approached the far end, the Lord looked up and blinked. Sitting back as they came to a halt and saluted, he frowned and then nodded.
Dark Empress Page 22