The Empire of the Zon

by R. M. Burgess

  “Thank you, teacher,” said Caitlin, smiling. “And I do speak Utrish.”

  “That’s another thing. Your accent is unmistakable. You must not speak above a whisper. Leave all the talking to me.”

  Caitlin took a leather vest out of her saddlebag, cut it into strips, and wound them around her wrist bracers till they were covered in leather sheaths. Nitya took Caitlin’s hands and carefully inspected her wrists. Finally she nodded. They remounted and rode down toward Upper Thal.

  THE CITADEL OF Simrania was named for Queen Simran, the particular heroine of the Engine Maidens. It was built into the cauldron of Mount Ignis, an old volcanic cone several thousand meters above the Thal River Valley. Mount Ignis, which the Engine Maidens called Mount Simran, was the taller of a pair of peaks, the lower being Mount Brimstone, an active volcano. It had been three hundred years since its last major eruption, but Brimstone still smoked almost every day and rumbled constantly.

  These high ranges were part of the Fire Mountains, which marked the constantly disputed border between Briga and Utrea. In fact, both Briga and Utrea claimed the lands around Simrania. Each had its own official name for the area. This gave the Engine Maidens a measure of security, since they could constantly play one side off against the other.

  Looking down on Brimstone from the Pinnacle Lookout, First Maiden Durga Bodina smiled at the seignora of the watch.

  “Look at the orange patches on snow-covered Brimstone,” she said. “Fire and ice, like our visitor, Diana Tragina.”

  The seignora smiled back. Diana was popular with the Maidens, even if she still served the weak-kneed priestesses. Both of them returned to their long-visions, scanning the swirling snow, looking for an incoming airboat. Up on the Pinnacle Lookout, the gusts were strong enough to cause both of them to remain in the protection of the wind shell that was anchored into the rocky floor.

  It was Durga whose sharp eyes first caught the tiny black speck, bouncing around like a leaf in a torrent. She pointed it out to the seignora, who immediately opened a comm channel.

  “We see you, Cornelle Diana,” she said in a level, official tone. “Take her up five hundred meters. We have flares laid out to mark your landing spot at the north end of the cauldron.”

  “Thank you, Seignora.” Diana’s voice was a bit scratchy, and the picture on the wind shell’s viewscreen was a bit fuzzy. “Up five hundred meters it is.”

  “You will recall the treacherous eddies in the volcanic cone, Cornelle,” continued the seignora. “Please stay away from the cauldron walls.”

  “Understood,” said Diana.

  They saw the speck grow larger and higher as she climbed. The storm was distorting the citadel’s directional homing beacon, so Diana brought the airboat in lazy spirals, rather than straight in. By now the remainder of the watch had joined Durga and their seignora, and they all craned their necks and observed the approach of the airboat with worried eyes. They all knew that as soon as the airboat dropped below the lip of the cauldron, out of the powerful gusts and into the swirling eddies, the sudden change in flight parameters would make for a very difficult transition.

  Durga had her long-vision focused on the airboat, silently repeating the goddess chant to Ma in her head, over and over. As the airboat dropped into the shelter of the cauldron out of the storm, Diana switched off almost all forward power and diverted most to the downward thrusters. Caught in the churning eddies, the airboat was thrown laterally toward the cauldron wall and described a complete midair loop. Diana jockeyed hard with her forward power and control surfaces until she finally got the airboat back under control.

  All in all, it took Diana only about five minutes, but it seemed like hours both to the watchers and to the occupants of the airboat. Just as the airboat touched down, Durga left the Pinnacle Lookout. She leapt into the antigravity shaft, free falling till the very last minute, when she slammed the power on, causing an exhilarating rush of blood to her head. She half ran to the landing site at the north end of the volcanic cauldron. A ground crew of four Maidens had already secured the airboat’s landing gear, and the rear exit ramp was descending. Durga reached it just as it thudded to the ground.

  Three huntresses—two Palace Guardians and a medica in an airship uniform of the Queen’s Household Legion—emerged first. All three looked shaken, but the medica was in a worse way, being supported by the other two. Her face was white, and it looked like she had been severely airsick—an airship huntress! Diana brought up the rear, nonchalant and seemingly at ease. She strode up to Durga, and they exchanged greetings, gripping each other’s shoulders tightly and smiling warmly.

  “Difficult landing, Cornelle, but I never doubted you would make it look easy,” said Durga, beaming.

  “I just happened to be in the left seat,” she said, waving it aside and patting the hull of the airboat. “These Mark VIIs fly themselves. Alex here would have done just as well, or better. Allow me to present my crew: Centuria Lady Alexandra Sheel, Seignora Megara Paurina, and Medica Cognis Dannae Margelina. Could you get your ground crew to unload the supplies and batteries we have lashed down on the rear deck of the boat? And Medica Dannae needs some rest and refreshment.”

  Durga merely signaled with her eyes, and the Maidens sprang to the tasks. Two entered the airboat to begin unloading, and another two took over from Alex and Megara and helped Dannae away to the sick bay.

  “Now, Durga,” said Diana seriously. “We need to talk.”

  “Follow me,” Durga returned. She led them into an antigravity shaft in the cauldron wall and stepped out at the top level. They emerged into a passageway hewn into the volcanic rock and lit every few meters with light panels. It ended abruptly at a steel door set into a rock face. Durga tapped her wrist bracer, and the door swung open. They followed her in.

  It was a comfortable living space with worn leather furniture, a large fireplace, and two huge viewports over the Thal Valley. The valley floor was invisible at present behind the whirling snow.

  “Please be seated,” Durga said to the three Guardians. “May I offer you some Brimstone ale? We Maidens brew a mean tankard.”

  “I am sure it will go down well,” said Diana, sitting on a large, comfortable sofa by the fire.

  Durga retrieved a large jug from an ice shelf and poured out four tankards, bringing over a tray herself and sitting down by Diana.

  “Health and beauty!” said Diana, raising her tankard.

  “Health and beauty!” the others responded automatically. They drank.

  Durga immediately offered a second toast.

  “To Ma and the Manifest Destiny!” she said, much more fervently.

  Diana raised her tankard and echoed her, prompting Alex and Megara to follow suit.

  “Well, here we are, Diana,” said Durga, putting her hand on the cornelle’s thigh. “What brings you to Simrania in this weather?”

  “Lady Caitlin d’Orr,” said Diana, the white lie slipping easily off her tongue. “You have doubtless heard the news from the comm regarding her actions in Dreslin and her subsequent escape from the Brigon Residency with a young barbarian female.”

  “If half of what we have heard on the comm is true, then Lady Caitlin exemplifies the highest ideals of the Sisterhood,” said Durga vehemently. “It is a disgrace that the Sisterhood wishes to bring her to court martial. A shame she did not succeed in bringing about war with Briga. It could easily have spread to a general war with the barbarians. They grow strong and arrogant, and the needling raids we carry out from Simrania are as much use as fleabites on an ice bear. King Shobar defies the Sisterhood with impunity and sends envoys everywhere, rallying support for his rebelliousness. Duke Artor has responded and dared to call his barons to arms, yet there is no response from the Sisterhood. I don’t know how you do it, Diana, serving these weak-willed, lily-livered priestesses.”

  “You and I think very much alike, Durga,” said Diana affectionately. “We always have. And I think the time is coming when we may see official p
olicy move in our direction. The Cabinet Council has agreed that we cannot allow Lady Caitlin to fall into barbarian hands. And they have also agreed that King Shobar must be replaced. And for both of these tasks, they have authorized me to work with you. I have the airship Hydromeda. All of my resources are at our disposal.”

  Durga set her tankard down carefully.

  “Pinch me, Diana,” she said quietly. “It has been twenty years since I left the bosom of the Sisterhood and ten years since they have elected me First Maiden. I have been holding our ragtag band together on a shoestring.” She drew her laser pistol and held it up. It was an elderly model that had seen better days. “Look at this. And this is one of the best in Simrania. Our ’grators are so old that they barely knock down doors, let alone castle walls. The administration starves us of batteries, so even our worn-out, obsolete weapons are always short of power. Give us proper weapons, and we will be the fist of the Sisterhood!” She made a fist, tensing her powerful forearm.

  All three Guardians were silent for a moment, sipping their ale. Diana finally broke the silence.

  “You will have the best equipment in the arsenal of the Sisterhood,” she said carefully. “But at a price. You and your Maidens must serve under my command.”

  IT WAS THE first snow of the winter in Dreslin Center. Harald took his guard again in a training ring in the Inner Ward of the Great Stony Keep. He was clad in light undress armor and hefted a blunt sparring sword and a small exercise shield. Esme was similarly attired and faced him across the ring. She was covered in sweat and leaned on her sword.

  “That’s enough for today, my dear,” said Harald, who was still very fresh. “I’m quite tired; you’ve really worn me out.”

  “You are such a bad liar, Harald,” panted Esme. “I will score on you yet!”

  She launched another attack with a flurry of cuts. Harald easily parried each one, but he did not take advantage of the numerous openings she gave him. He retreated a step at a time but stayed within the ring. The ringing of steel on steel seemed to excite her; her eyes were bright and her color high.

  Harald had tried to talk her out of the contest, but she badgered and berated him. Finally, when he could no longer bear her nagging, he reluctantly gave in. A troop of Life Guards stood at a respectful distance. He was sure that they were sniggering at their king sparring with his pretty, petite queen.

  Finally, her sword slipped from her sweaty grip, and Harald took the opportunity to kick it out of the ring.

  “That was a low trick,” she complained. “You didn’t disarm me.”

  “You are much too good for me, my dear,” said Harald, hoping to mollify her.

  “I sparred with my fencing master in Karsk all the time,” she said, walking over to a ringside spectator bench and sitting down. “He always said that I had the best form he had ever seen. I wish it had been me facing Lady Caitlin d’Orr in the fighting pit. I would not have been so easily distracted by frilly underwear or body paint.”

  “I am sure you would have made Briga proud, my love,” said Harald, with a sidelong glance at his Life Guards. They looked straight ahead with stone faces, but he thought he saw suppressed mirth. Rather than give them more fodder for their mates, he dismissed them.

  He sat by Esme and wiped a bead of sweat off her brow. Snowflakes settled in her auburn curls and melted into shining droplets that shone like diamonds. She looked so pretty, he could not help putting his arms around her protectively and kissing her head.

  “I wish you would see the wisdom of working with the Zon, my love,” he said, still holding her in his arms. “Thirty years of almost continuous peace have been good for Briga. Our people travel and trade without fear, the arts and commerce flourish, and we grow more prosperous every year. Compare that to Utrea, where Shabor has defied the Sisterhood for the last fifteen years. Life and property are at constant risk as freebooting barons loot and pillage each other’s lands, under the pretext of fighting the Zon. The warfare and accompanying tension has reduced trade to a trickle. I hear that Nordberg lives in fear as Shabor and his henchmen seek to root out Zon agents—everyone is spying on his or her neighbor. Driving his kingdom into penury, he has achieved nothing but a string of defeats at the hands of the Sisterhood.”

  “King Shabor has brought pride back to Utrea,” retorted Esme fiercely. “What good is peace and prosperity if it is under the tyranny of the Zon? Don’t you want Axel, our baby son, to grow up free?”

  “What is this tyranny you speak of, my dear?” asked Harald. “I see little of it. Lady Selene suggests things to me from time to time, it is true, but far less often than Red Khalif Alumus or even Baron va Haxos. Why do you hate the Zon so?”

  “They have turned us into powerless vassals and treat us as slaves,” she replied in a low monotone. “You are too blind to see your own powerlessness. My grandfather and uncle died horribly at their hands. I may as well ask why you love them after all they have done to you and your family.”

  “I believe I have acted in the best interests of Briga,” Harald said stiffly.

  “Or is it that you are in love with Lady Selene?” Esme said, looking at him cannily. Harald laughed self-consciously and colored slightly. Esme saw that her shaft had hit home.

  “My dear, you cannot doubt my love for you,” he said, hugging her tighter. “I love our son, my heir, just as much. And we will have more children, you and I.” He patted her flat belly.

  “Shelsor kings have been known to have more than one wife,” Esme persisted.

  “My father had but one,” said Harald defensively.

  “But your grandfather had three. And children by all of them.”

  “Those were different times. In any event, you are being silly. No Zon has ever married a native. Lady Selene would be the last one to do so.”

  “What would you say if she asked for your hand?” Esme knew she was leading the conversation down a path that could bring her no pleasure, but she could not help herself.

  “My dear, you are asking me to speculate on an impossible hypothetical,” Harald said, his voice strained. “However, I will not lie to you. I have known Lady Selene all my life, first as a young Under Resident and now as Resident. To me she is the epitome of intelligence, elegance, and beauty. If she were your co-wife, I think you would grow to love her as I do.”

  Red spots of anger appeared on Esme’s cheeks.

  “Never!” she exclaimed. “You are such a lapdog, Harald, eagerly awaiting every coo and pat from Lady Selene and the Zon. The One God has made me your queen for a reason. It is my life’s work to turn the lapdog into a wolf.”

  NINE

  CHEVAL HORUS MATALUS spat in the mud. Snow was falling, but the temperature was still not low enough to freeze the ground solid. He surveyed the market critically. There were about a dozen stalls selling foodstuffs, consumer goods, and tools where there were normally about a hundred. There were very few customers, and very little business was being conducted. Even the few customers on hand were mostly flocking to the Trading Guild’s small stone fort whose gate, five-meter walls, and fifteen-meter watch tower were guarded by stern-eyed huntresses.

  “A pitiful sight, Asgar,” said Horus sourly. “The Red Sentinels travel about broadcasting news of this bounty, spreading the fear of war with the Sisterhood, and scaring trade. And what little there is goes to these filthy Zon.”

  Horus was of medium height, stocky and muscular, with a thin white scar that ran down the side of his face. His companion was far taller and much better proportioned. He had a thin nose and unusually even, white teeth that flashed now as he smiled.

  “Worried about your lord’s share, Horus?” Asgar laughed. “Don’t fret—I am sure that even with this meager trade, the Zon market women will pay you enough to keep you in wine and wenches.”

  Horus scowled.

  “It is easy for you to joke, Asgar, but remember that your bed, board, and maintenance come out of my income.”

  “And you should remember what
you told me this afternoon,” said Asgar easily. “The bounty is on the head of the killer of your young brother. Your trading income will be the least of your worries if Duke Artor, your father-in-law, gets the House of Matalus to join him in his proposed march on Atlantic City. Let us see what we have made so far today, shall we?”

  They strode over to the huntresses, who crossed halberds to prevent them from entering the small fort.

  “No weapons in the trading center,” said the senior one, wearing a metal choker with an ax-and-hammer insignia.

  “Just wanted to check on business volume today,” said Asgar, stepping in front of Horus but making no move to pass.

  The huntress was impassive. She tapped her wrist bracer and spoke rapidly in Pranto. A moment later she turned to Asgar.

  “Your barbarian’s share is about ten gold talents so far,” she said emotionlessly.

  Asgar clapped Horus on the shoulder, saying, “See, what did I tell you?” He steered him back toward the short main street of Upper Thal. It was a small town of a hundred or so rather dilapidated structures along a short street with the market and the Trading Guild fort at one end and a Matalus family strongpoint at the other. The Matalus fort was about thrice the size of the Trading Guild’s one, its gray stone contrasting with the Zon white. The Thal River, a tributary of the mighty Amu-Shan, snaked around the town in a rocky semi-circular run of white water. Both forts backed on to the river, using the rough water as part of their defensive perimeter.

  A few light ’grator barrels poked over the battlements of the Guild fort, one conspicuously aimed at the Matalus fort. A Trading Guild freighter airboat rode on sky anchors about a hundred meters overhead, its running lights winking.

  “Come,” said Asgar cheerfully. “Let me spend some of your money buying you a drink.”

  Horus reluctantly allowed himself to be led to the inn. It was about halfway up the street and sported a rough wooden shingle with a carved bugle, the crest of the House of Matalus. They pushed through the swinging doors and heavy drapes and took seats at the bar. One of the barmaids, a pretty brunette with her hair in two braids, immediately waited on them. She put her elbows on the bar to let them see her cleavage, smiled coyly, and said, “What is your pleasure, my lords?”