The Empire of the Zon

by R. M. Burgess

This effectively killed the conversation, and they lapsed into silence, each alone with his own thoughts.

  Greghar nudged Caitlin and Nitya and signaled the retreat. He led them back no less carefully than he had led them in. They made a wide circle to avoid the sentries and regained their horses. They rode back to their camp in silence, aware that their voices would carry far in the still night air.

  “Who were those men?” Caitlin asked as they hobbled their horses for the night.

  “They are from King Shobar’s personal retinue that he styles his Skull Watch.” His tone was bitter. “Shobar and his lame First Minister, Katog, brought them from their home province, Swarborg, in the northeast when they usurped my father’s throne. They have instituted a reign of terror in Nordberg and all of Utrea.”

  “They were sent to kill you!” Nitya said breathlessly. “Is it because he fears you as the son of your father?”

  “I am not a trueborn son,” he replied flatly. “Shobar killed my trueborn half-brothers and half-sisters, just as Lady Death said at the inn. It is his nature to be suspicious, and my being alive is inconvenient.”

  Caitlin almost said, “My mother also thinks you are inconvenient,” but she held her tongue.

  Instead she said, “Well, we now know why they are here. And it looks like at least some of them are going to desert.”

  “They will be wise to do so,” said Greghar. “Shobar is not one to go easy on those who fail to carry out his orders.”

  Greghar built a small fire with his stash of low-smoke twigs and squatted by it, warming his hands from the night chill. Nitya came and sat beside him. The two of them sat in silence for a while. Caitlin sat slightly apart, warm in her temperature shield. She looked at Greghar, his finely formed features highlighted in the flickering firelight. He is a handsome barbarian, she thought. If I were a barbarian woman, I would be extremely attracted to him. He had pushed up the sleeves of his tunic to light the fire, and she took in his powerful forearms. He had numerous scars on both arms and knuckles: long, thin, white ones from swords and sharp weapons, as well as darker, rounded ones from the blunt blows of clubs and fists.

  “You have a whole history of war etched on your arms,” she said, walking up and squatting across the fire from him.

  Greghar looked at his arms as though seeing them for the first time.

  “I’ve done my share of fighting,” he said calmly, without bravado. “But you, on the other hand, are unmarked by battle. Yet you must have taken some hard knocks in your contest in the fighting pits of Dreslin.”

  Caitlin laughed self-consciously.

  “I did take some blows there,” she admitted. “But our medicae undertake surgery…They use skin grafts…” Here she paused to put it in terms he could understand. “They repair any damage to our bodies, so we have no marks.” She tapped her rib cage. “I fell hard in an airship maneuver once and shattered a couple of ribs. The medicae replaced them with titanium ones. So I am indeed part metal!” She laughed.

  “The news of your combat in Dreslin has been spread like wildfire with the news of the bounty on your head,” said Greghar, smiling. “Some of the reports are very colorful. Perhaps it would be wise to keep up your training.”

  Caitlin blushed. To offset her embarrassment, she stood, resting her hands on the pommel of her sword.

  “I saw you fight at the inn,” she said, with a challenging look in her eyes. “You can handle a sword. Will you spar with me?”

  She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, thought Greghar, yet she seems completely unaware of it. With difficulty, he kept his face impassive. He stood and faced her across the fire. He looked down the way they had come.

  “We are downwind from the Utreans’ camp,” he said thoughtfully. “We are far enough away. I think we may spar safely.”

  He drew his sword and slid the blade into a leather sparring sheath. He pulled a second sheath from his pack and tossed it to Caitlin, who had drawn Karya. Greghar looked at it appreciatively.

  “That is a beautiful sword,” he said, as Caitlin slid the blade into the leather sparring sheath.

  “It is not mine,” said Caitlin, without conceit. “It is called Karya. It is one of an ancient pair that is passed down from mother to daughter in my family. The pair now belongs to my mother, who uses the other one, Nasht. She loaned me this one when I went to the Academy. After what I have done, I am sure she will want it back.”

  She took her guard. Greghar came around the fire and did likewise. They circled each other warily. He let her make the first attack and defended himself without much difficulty. She sped up and made him work harder, then fell back competently as he counterattacked. They fought on with muffled blows of leather-bound steel for almost an hour. Nitya watched, fascinated.

  Finally, Greghar called a halt. They both leaned on their swords, panting and covered in sweat.

  “You can handle a sword, huntress,” said Greghar courteously. “You pushed me hard on several occasions. I would gladly trust my back to you in a fight.”

  “I’m not too bad,” said Caitlin modestly, though she glowed at the compliment. “I was selected to be a Palace Guardian, the best of our military units. But I confess that many of my fellow Guardians are better with a blade. Cornelle Diana, she is unbeatable.”

  “Lady Death,” said Greghar softly. “Yes, she loves swordplay.”

  “I’m sorry, Greghar,” said Caitlin in dismay. “I did not mean to bring this up. Your father…”

  Greghar waved his hand dismissively.

  “That was a long time ago,” he said, his tone neutral. “It is nothing to me now.” But both Caitlin and Nitya saw the spark of emotion in his eyes that belied his words.

  “But we a long day in front of us tomorrow,” continued Greghar. “I mean to cross into Utrea. Get to bed, both of you. I will take the first watch.”

  VIVIA PRAGARINA STEPPED out of her private airboat steadied by the arm of Naorina Wilkina, her personal maid. In spite of her vast wealth, being a commoner meant that she could not employ electrae, and this constantly grated on her nerves. To compensate, she paid the highest wages in the Sisterhood and made sure that her attendants, while not the brightest or the most athletic, were more beautiful and better dressed than even the handmaidens of the queen.

  Naorina was a tall, striking blonde, whose pouting face and eyecatching figure Vivia was happy to use in advertising a range of products for sale to the barbarians. She was an expensive toy, and Vivia had to keep raising her wages to counter the constant offers she received from other Guild Mistresses. She wore a revealing gown made by Vivia’s personal designer, which clung to every curve of her gorgeous body. As Vivia took her arm to sashay from the airboat through the Chenak market, the girl brought all trading to a halt as the men just stopped and stared at her. She’s worth every gold talent I pay her, thought Vivia with satisfaction.

  The four huntresses at the gates of the Guild fort looked at the pair of them without emotion, barely acknowledging their presence. My taxes pay your salaries, Vivia felt like screaming at them. The least you can do is smile at me and be grateful! But she kept her face blank as she walked by them into the fort. Each Guild Mistress had a set space for her stalls based on her last year’s revenue. Vivia’s firm was always one of the top revenue earners, and her stalls occupied a large space in a prized location just facing the entrance to the fort.

  Her traders were doing a brisk business. She always worked at the top end of the market, buying and selling only the highest-quality goods and dealing exclusively in the luxury brands. The patrons at her stalls were uniformly well heeled and consequently well dressed.

  Vivia was a consummate businesswoman, and as she circulated among her clients, she exuded warmth and hospitality, making them all feel at ease and proud to pay her exorbitant prices. As always, she was dressed, made up, and coiffed magnificently, and she moved with sinuous grace. She attracted many a lecherous look, which she rewarded with the squeeze of a hand or the tou
ch of a cheek. Hardened Brigon traders jostled like boys to get her attention. Business at her stalls always picked up when she paid a personal visit.

  She spent just enough time chatting and joking before literally bumping into Numius, her timing so precise that to everyone it appeared accidental.

  “Ah, Numius, my favorite Chenak merchant,” she said, her eyes bright and dancing. “I hope you have come with all your gold today; I have much to interest you.”

  “High Mistress, if you would but consent to be mine, I would sign over my last copper to you,” he said gallantly, taking her hand and bowing low. Vivia let him hold it for a moment and gracefully extricated it before he could kiss it.

  She laughed merrily, thinking to herself, I make more in three months than you will make in all your miserable life.

  She led him to a stall piled high with bolts of fabric saying, “Come, Numius, I will give you a bargain on some very fine musk-lace from East Brosia. It is so fine, the great ladies of Chenak will pay you twice what I ask you for it.” She dropped her voice. “Twenty percent less than I am selling it to everyone else.”

  His jowls shook in his eagerness. He snapped his fingers, and two of his clerks ran up to him. Vivia indicated a bolt, and they picked it up for his inspection. He ran his fingers over it, muttering, “Not bad—quite fine in fact.”

  “Let us do this deal, Numius,” said Vivia, significantly. “Then I have another deal that I would discuss with you.”

  Never one to let a single copper pass through her fingers, Vivia made sure Numius paid in full for the musk-lace before moving on to what had really brought her to Chenak.

  “Have you made the arrangements my secretary asked you to make?” she asked, after she was satisfied the payment was stowed away in one of her strongboxes.

  “Yes, High Mistress,” said Numius, trying to keep his voice down. “Everything is set up in a disused quarry two kilometers to the south of the city. The wind is from the north today, so we will be downwind from here.”

  “Good, good.” Vivia rubbed her hands. “It will be very loud, and we don’t want the sound to reach here.”

  “I have my carriage here,” continued Numius.

  “Get your carriage by my airboat,” commanded Vivia. “Seat yourself in it. I will join you.”

  Numius left the Guild fort soon after. Vivia gave him about fifteen minutes before telling Naorina, “Wait here with the strongboxes. My market women will get you anything you want. I will be back before the close of trading.”

  She swathed herself in the barbarian cloak and veil that she kept in one of her stalls and walked out of the fort with her head down. With her finery covered, she attracted no attention as she slipped out of the fort and climbed into Numius’s carriage. Numius leaned out of the window and called up to his driver, “Drive on!”

  A moment later, the driver’s whip sounded, the horses moved off, and the carriage lurched into motion. Vivia had little experience with barbarian transport and almost fell off her seat, much to the gratification of Numius, who caught her and helped her back into the cushions, reveling in her proximity and inhaling deeply of her expensive perfume. As they continued to bump down the potholed road, she gripped the armrests tightly to keep from falling off the seat.

  “How much longer must we sit in this contraption?” she asked plaintively.

  “Oh, only about half an hour, High Mistress,” said Numius, sitting comfortably and glad that the tables were turned, at least for a moment.

  The drive was too long by half for Vivia. When the carriage lurched to a halt, she managed to keep her seat by dint of clinging to the armrest, disappointing Numius, who had his arms out to catch her. The footmen jumped down from the carriage, opened the door, and placed a stool on the ground to help them exit. One of the footmen gave Vivia his hand to help her to ground, and then helped Numius in like fashion.

  As Numius promised, they were in a disused quarry. Granite cliffs about thirty meters high that bore the marks of excavation enveloped them on three sides. Four men stood at the center of the quarried area, all dressed in light armor and carrying the weaponry that marked them as men-at-arms. A squat, swarthy man appeared to be their leader, and he led them toward Vivia and Numius.

  “Cheval Kantus Hilson,” he said, his tone arrogant. “We have ridden a long way to see this demonstration. It had better be worth it.”

  Vivia looked at his tough, brutal face, the scars on his massive arms, and his cold, cruel eyes and wondered for a moment whether she was safe here, out of the reach of the huntresses. She glanced at Numius, who gave her a reassuring look.

  “Do you have the gold?” Vivia asked, swallowing her resentment at his rough tone and keeping her voice level and professional.

  “If I had my way, you would not see a single coin till we had taken complete delivery and carried out tests,” Kantus said grimly. “But this merchant…” He spat before continuing. “This merchant has convinced my liege, Duke Hilson, that this demonstration is worth a hundred gold talents. I am to give them to you if we are satisfied with the demonstration.”

  He paused and spat again. “I am true to my liege,” he growled. “If we are satisfied, you will have your gold.”

  “If you are not satisfied, you can keep your money,” said Vivia primly, tossing a trailing end of her scarf over her shoulder, drawing his attention to the fine hand-painted Kanjiam silk. He was no fool and instantly recognized it for what it was. This wisp of fabric was worth considerably more than the one hundred gold talents that she had come all this way to earn. He knew his wife would kill for a scarf like that.

  Vivia reached into her elegant carriage bag and drew a leather bundle from it about a third of a meter long and only slightly thicker than the grip of her hand. She beckoned Kantus and handed him the bundle. He undid it and drew from it two round paper cylinders with metal caps and what looked like very long wicks. He barked with laughter.

  “You want us to pay you handsomely for candles?” he asked. His laughter evaporated quickly, and his face grew harsh. “I don’t know your reasons for making fools of us—” he began.

  Vivia cut him off.

  “Do as I say, and you will not be disappointed,” she said sharply. She was used to command, and her tone silenced him. “This is a very dangerous device. Ask one of your men to take one of these cylinders to that cave in the cliff face over there.” She pointed to a shallow cave in the quarry wall. “He must place the device against the very rear of the cave, then light the wick, and run back to where we are standing. He should run as fast as he can, or he will be very sorry. These are very fast-burning fuses.”

  Kantus signaled one of his men.

  “You heard her,” he said briefly, handing over one of the cylinders.

  The man-at-arms took the cylinder and walked over to the cave, crunching over the snow. It seemed to take a long time in the early winter afternoon. He did as he was bid and lit the fuse with a flint from his pouch. He turned and ran back toward them, but in a leisurely amble, barely faster than walking pace. He was still fifty meters from them when the stick of dynamite went off with a resounding crash. The entire wall of the cliff exploded, and boulders the size of a man’s torso were blown sky high and began to rain down along with smaller debris and a cloud of dust.

  Kantus’s man paid for his nonchalance with his life. He was struck by a boulder that crushed his chest cavity, extinguishing his life like a match. The aftershocks of the explosion began to die away, but all the Brigons still stood with their mouths hanging open. Kantus looked at the remaining stick in his hand as though it might bite him.

  Finally he turned to Vivia and Numius, struck by the contrast. Numius continued to open and close his mouth like a goldfish. Vivia stood poised, her gray-green eyes cool and challenging. Kantus bowed his head.

  “You were right, High Mistress,” he said in the tones he would have used in a cathedral. “This is much, much more than I expected.” He approached her respectfully and placed a heavy
leather sack in her hands. “There are one hundred gold talents there. Duke Hilson’s Master of Treasury counted them out himself. You may count them again to reassure yourself.”

  Vivia resumed her warm, teasing persona of the market.

  “There is no need for that,” she said sweetly, touching his forearm lightly. “I am sure the money is all there. I expected a hardened soldier such as yourself to instantly recognize the value of my little device.” She paused.

  “It will be very useful in activities like mining and quarrying,” she continued, her eyes guileless and innocent. She pointed to the huge heap of rubble now accumulated at the quarry face where the stick of dynamite had gone off. “I hope you will be able to carry out a like demonstration for your master, Duke Hilson. And please make sure your men take a less-cavalier attitude the next time. Losing a retainer is such a bore.”

  “I will follow your instructions to the letter, High Mistress,” said Kantus respectfully. He turned to go.

  “Cheval Hilson,” said Vivia, touching him on the arm again and stopping him in his tracks. “Pray take this scarf as a trifling token of my esteem. Your wife or mistress may find it a small consolation for your absence.”

  Kantus took the scarf reverentially, thinking of his wife’s delight on receiving this gift. It was worth more than the rest of her wardrobe put together. She would be the envy of all her women friends in Karsk! He folded it carefully and daintily for one with such rough, calloused hands.

  “High Mistress Vivia,” he said admiringly. “Numius described you to us in the most flattering terms. But I see that even this description falls short of the reality.”

  Back in Numius’s carriage on the way back to the market, Vivia still clung to the armrest, but she looked much happier doing it.

  “How long will it take Cheval Hilson to get to Karsk?” she asked, smiling.

  “It is about three days of hard riding, High Mistress,” said Numius promptly.

  “Then I am sure he will be back in Chenak to take delivery in six,” she said, a smug look on her face. She opened the leather sack and counted out ten gold talents, handing them one by one to Numius.