The Empire of the Zon

by R. M. Burgess

  “I am ready to land at Goset,” she said. “Please assemble a crew and prepare the pod.”

  The pod was a small auxiliary vessel the airboat carried to ferry passengers to locations that did not have docking facilities. Vivia’s extensive dealings with the barbarians meant that this happened quite often. The pod was ready with its two-person crew at the controls by the time Darbeni arrived at the launch platform at the stern of the airboat. The deck crew helped her climb aboard the pod in her finery, and she settled back into the comfortable cushions.

  GOSET WAS A small trading and fishing port and was the seat of Sous Cheval Hughen va Goset, nominally a vassal of the king of Briga. However, when the Hilson army arrived from the Northern Marches on its way to Aurora, he had taken the prudent course of sweating fealty to Duke Artor. His castle was small but well-situated, with rocky sea cliffs protecting its seaward side, while on the landward aspect, the ground fell away sharply from its walls, putting any attacker at a severe disadvantage.

  Cheval Kantus Hilson had lodged himself in the castle and his accompanying force of two hundred men had taken over the town. He now stood on the battlements with his two captains, gazing up at the airboat in the overcast sky. In deference to Kantus’s rank, Sous Cheval va Goset stood a few meters away with his castellan. All the men were clad in light armor and were armed for battle.

  Kantus grunted when he saw the pod detach itself from the airboat and rapidly descend toward the castle. As it approached, it became apparent that the pod would land in the courtyard of the keep. Followed by his captains, Kantus hurried down the steps to meet it, calling to va Goset, “Get your stewards to lay out the reception in the courtyard—I want everything ready before they open their doors!”

  Ten minutes later Kantus stood in the courtyard, backed by his captains and a small honor guard. Hilson standards as well as Zon Trading Guild jacks streamed from their ceremonial fauchards. Va Goset and his castellan stood further back with a few stewards bearing silver trays of the local Gosetter wine and small dishes of pickled fish.

  The pod’s hatch hissed open, and a smooth and carpeted ramp extended out to the ground. The two crewwomen stepped out and took up positions on either side of the ramp. Then Darbeni appeared in the hatch, and the crewwomen handed her down the ramp to the ground. She set her temperature shield before she looked up and scanned her receiving party, her fingers tightening on her clutch.

  Kantus was both enchanted and disappointed. This Zon was a vision, and to his eyes she seemed to be barely out of her teens. But in his heart of hearts, he had been desperately looking forward to another meeting with Vivia—with her grace, beauty, and style, she was such a contrast to his short, dumpy, shrewish wife. And we have such chemistry, he thought. Serving her is a pleasure, not a burden. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

  “I am Cheval Kantus Hilson,” he said gruffly. “In the name of Duke Artor Hilson, I welcome you to Goset Castle.”

  Darbeni had had very few dealings with barbarians, and this rough-hewn warrior scared her. Her big eyes grew wide, and she blinked several times as she forgot her opening lines. But to the men, her batting eyelashes looked coyly suggestive. Don’t worry about appearing nervous or frightened, Vivia had told her. Barbarian men love to be protective of beautiful women; it fans their egos when they can appear strong. Darbeni touched the diamonds on her throat and brushed back a stray lock of hair that the wind had pulled out of her elegant coiffure. Her lips had been painted very red and full, and she ran her tongue over her upper one. Then she spoke carefully, enunciating every word. Her Brigon was very good, but she had rarely had the chance to use it except when practicing with other Zon. Consequently, she sounded very pedantic, and her singsong Zon accent was very strong.

  “Cheval Hilson, I am Darbeni Milsina, Chief Counsel to High Mistress Vivia Pragarina. The High Mistress has spoken of you in the highest terms. I am delighted to bring greetings from all of us at Pragarina Enterprises.”

  Kantus smiled with genuine pleasure.

  “I am disappointed not to be able to meet High Mistress Vivia in person, but that does not detract from our pleasure in having you with us, Chief Counsel. Before we proceed inside, may I offer you some refreshment?”

  He gestured at the stewards, and they now approached. Darbeni selected a glass of wine and fell into step with Kantus, entering the Keep with him. The captains and Sous Cheval va Goset followed. In a small reception hall, Kantus read out a short prepared speech reaffirming the Hilsons’ commitment to their alliance with Pragarina Enterprises. He was a poor orator, and he spoke awkwardly with many ums, aahs, and pauses. Nonetheless, when he was done, everyone clapped dutifully. Whatever he does, praise him, Vivia had told her. Barbarians are suckers for flattery.

  “Cheval Hilson, I cannot match your eloquence, so I will merely say that all of us at Pragarina Enterprises stand by our commitments to the Hilsons. I myself am honored to be in the company of a valiant warrior like you.”

  Kantus looked into her wide, guileless eyes and preened. These beautiful Zon recognize my worth, he thought. Unlike my shrewish wife. He raised his glass, and they all toasted their continued association and success.

  “Chief Counsel, shall we adjourn to a smaller chamber to chat?” asked Kantus in his gravelly voice. She nodded assent.

  Kantus led the way into a small meeting room off the reception hall. It was furnished with overstuffed chairs, and the walls were lined with old weapons. There was a roaring fire in the grate. Kantus guided Darbeni to a comfortable chair by the fire and sat down beside her in the adjacent one. The sparkling diamonds in her hair and at her throat momentarily mesmerized him. And her gown, made entirely of kanjiam! The wealth of the High Mistress was truly unfathomable.

  Kantus’s captains had remained outside in the reception hall, but va Goset and his castellan had followed them in, sipping their wine. Va Goset came forward and bowed to Darbeni, who sat erect and tense. As Vivia had predicted, the men found her combination of vulnerability and attractiveness entrancing.

  “Chief Counsel,” said va Goset stiffly. “Allow me to add a personal welcome to my castle.” Here he cast a significant sidelong glance at Kantus. He was rather short and bald, but spare and quite athletic.

  Darbeni inclined her head, acknowledging his welcome, and batted her lashes a few times as she tried to frame a suitable response. But before she could respond, Kantus spoke up.

  “Sous Cheval va Goset,” he said heavily, emphasizing the rank. “We thank you for the use of your facilities, for which you will be rewarded in due course. However, you will appreciate that the fewer that know the details of our plans, the greater our chances of success. I am afraid that I must ask you and your castellan to withdraw.”

  Va Goset bristled and looked as though he would retort. The dismissal in front of their beautiful visitor was particularly galling. He restrained himself with an effort.

  “I will be delighted to wait on you, when you have completed your boring negotiations,” he said to Darbeni pointedly. “It would be my honor to show you around my abode. The castle is small, but we have some rather beautiful seascapes, if I do say so myself.”

  “I shall be happy to see them,” said Darbeni, smiling.

  The door closed behind va Goset and his castellan, and they were alone. Darbeni eyed Kantus’s broad shoulders and his powerful forearms and shivered inwardly. He could crush me with one hand, she thought uneasily. She wondered uncomfortably at the wisdom of arming these fearsome barbarians against the Legions. I hope Vivia knows what she is doing, she thought.

  “Chief Counsel,” said Kantus ponderously. “I will not mince words. We are at a critical juncture in Aurora. The huntresses have withdrawn to within the inner walls, but we have no more dynamite. Without it, we can make no further progress. And to make matters worse, they are now beginning to realize that we cannot power the few ’grators that we have and have begun to harry us with airboats. If they increase the intensity of the airboat attacks, I
fear they will defeat us rapidly and utterly.”

  Darbeni nodded. She fidgeted with her clutch. Lean over and touch his forearm lightly, Vivia had said. Speak in a low and throaty voice. You can make him do whatever you want once you have him hooked. She wanted to follow Vivia’s advice, but she was frozen with fear. He was so rough and crude and exuded the smell of leather and sweat.

  “Cheval Hilson,” she said finally, in a small voice. “It is difficult for me to believe anyone can defeat you in battle.”

  He grinned ruefully.

  “Indeed, Chief Counsel, in a fair fight with level odds, I will take my chances with anyone. But with swords against ’grators, my men and I face certain death.”

  Screwing up her courage, Darbeni leaned over and touched his forearm.

  “I admire your courage, Cheval,” she said, looking straight at him with her big brown eyes. “High Mistress Vivia and I would like to continue supporting you. But there is something you must do for us first. It concerns an issue where we have a particularly strong mutual interest.”

  “Say the word, Chief Counsel,” he said, taking both her delicate hands firmly in his calloused, meaty ones. “Just tell me what to do.”

  Goddess Ma, will he let me go? she thought, panicking. With difficulty, and in disjointed sentences littered with pauses, she told him. As she gave him the details, he leaned closer to her, revolting her with his stale breath and body odor. She was terrified that he would attempt physical intimacy and shrank back into the cushions of her chair as far was she could. When she finished speaking, to her intense relief, he released her hands and sank back in his own chair.

  “High Mistress Vivia Pragarina is a genius,” he breathed. “Once we do this, your next shipment of dynamite will drop Aurora into our laps like a ripe plum!”

  He paused, and the heat in his look made her sit up tensely, cross her legs, and hold her clutch tightly in her lap with both hands. She blinked rapidly in confusion, sending him quite the wrong message.

  “We live in changing times,” he said deliberately. “A new order is taking shape on Tarsus, one of man and woman rather than Zon and barbarian. What a pair the duke and the High Mistress would make as king and queen of Briga! And a delicate flower like you would need the protection of a valiant warrior.”

  THE MORNING DRAGGED on for Caitlin. She tried to speak as little as possible and kept a fixed smile on her face. Nestar kept trying to impress her, relating stories that attested to his great cunning, battles that he had won by tricks and subterfuges, and tales of appalling cruelty. The more he did so, the more depressed she became. He kept Aliuta hovering in the background, fetching her choice tidbits to nibble, but she had no appetite.

  Lunch was worse. Nestar commanded that a repast be laid out in the Small Hall, attended by all his captains. He kept his entire staff of Zon servitors scurrying around, making sure every detail of the meal was attended to. He called it a “light lunch,” but the long oaken table groaned under the weight of dozens of dishes, mostly made from the mutton of mountain goat hunted in the surrounding crags. The heavy smell of the various gravies and roasted meat assaulted Caitlin’s sensitive vegetarian nose, and she felt faint. She nibbled at the beets, carrots, and vegetable stew that Aliuta brought her.

  Nestar had seated her at the place of honor at his right hand. Guttanar sat at Nestar’s left. The Zon servitors, old and frail as they were, worked hard at keeping the food flowing from the kitchens. The smells of the food were the least of their concerns, for they had to endure cuffs, snarled oaths, and considerable lecherous groping. In spite of the depredations of his men in the Keep, Nestar had been careful to shelter the cellars and now maintained a heavy guard over Laksa’s wide-ranging store of wines. Now he ordered up case after case of the younger, rougher vintages. Nestar and his men poured the wine down their throats and pounded their mugs for refills. The more they drank, the louder and more boisterous they became.

  The lunch went on for over two hours, by which point several of Nestar’s men were snoring with their foreheads on the table and their helmets askew. Nestar stood unsteadily and surveyed the wreckage of dirty and broken plates, bottles, and cracked mugs on the long table. He leaned forward, supporting himself with his palms on the table.

  “Come, my consort,” he slurred, reaching out and taking Caitlin’s forearm. “Let us retire to the master suite for an afternoon of rest. You can keep me warm under the covers.”

  “You gave your word, sir,” said Caitlin, in a level tone, “that we would remain separate while I consider your proposal of marriage. You gave me till tonight. I very much hope that the man I marry…”—here she twisted her forearm free from his grip—“is a man of his word.”

  Used to dealing with his aged Zon servitors, Nestar was surprised by her strength. Realizing that he was tipsy and vulnerable, he looked around the Small Hall. He was reassured by the presence of a dozen of his men-at-arms, alert and cold-eyed, each with a very firm grasp on his pike. She followed his gaze and where he felt comfort, she felt only frustration.

  “You may take your rest where you will, sir,” she continued. “I prefer to walk the battlements to get some fresh air.”

  “I will be in the subsidiary suite,” he grumbled. “I will expect you back in the Great Hall at six sharp this evening for the banquet. It will be your great good fortune to accept my hand there. Make sure Aliuta dresses you for the wedding.”

  He stumped away, weaving slightly.

  “Tell my servitors to clear away this mess,” he said to one of his men-at-arms as he left the Small Hall. He waved at the long table covered with the wreckage of the lunch. Then he left, and Caitlin let her breath out in a long sigh of relief.

  Caitlin got to her feet, and Aliuta was at her elbow in a moment, wrapping the heavy wool wrap around her shoulders. She walked with her charge out of the Small Hall, past Nestar’s guards. The old woman smiled to herself inwardly as she read the disappointment in their eyes—Caitlin’s figure-hugging gown was concealed from them under the enveloping wool wrap. Aliuta led Caitlin down the corridor and to the open terrace that led to the battlements. They heard the tramp of the guards, and when they were outside, they saw their escort of men-at-arms that obviously had orders to watch over Caitlin at all times.

  Caitlin had been to Ostracis before, but like most serving huntresses, she had spent most of her time on the provisioning airship, with as little time as possible in the citadel. She depended on Aliuta to lead her around. The elderly woman now touched her elbow.

  “Lady Caitlin,” she said, speaking in Pranto. “You may wish to turn left and proceed around to the rear of the Keep.”

  “Why?” asked Caitlin forthrightly. “As I recall, the battlements at the front of the Keep offer a splendid view of the entire town and the Steefen Gorge.”

  “That is quite true, my lady. But Nestar Crogus has spikes implanted in the merlons on the Keep’s fore battlements, each mounted with the head of a huntress. It is not a pretty sight.”

  “I am not afraid,” said Caitlin firmly. “I will be happy to see my sisters, who fought so bravely and died in battle. I owe them my respect.”

  In spite of her words, Caitlin felt her stomach turn when they came upon the fore battlements. She could not enjoy the beautiful view, for there were literally hundreds of heads on spikes. The northern raptors had done their work, and the eyes were all gone together with a lot of the flesh. It was a grisly sight with hanks of hair fluttering from frozen flesh.

  Caitlin steeled herself and walked on. She forced herself to look upon them and whispered, “Be in peace with Ma,” to each one.

  “We were reinforced with two centuries of active-duty huntresses just before the attack,” said Aliuta somberly. “Some of them escaped, but none were captured alive. Hundreds of our retired huntresses fought and died beside them.”

  It the middle there was one spike raised higher than the rest. It was unrecognizable, but Caitlin paused in front of it, staring at the fluttering white
hair. It was snowing again, and in the whirling flakes, the face looked almost like a half-finished sculpture, its expression relaxed and at peace.

  “That is our Commandant, Praefecta Laksa,” said Aliuta. “She was killed on the Ravine Wall. But she killed over two dozen barbarians before she died—I heard on the comm that the bodies were littered around her.”

  Their escort approached them, and two of them came closer, laughing.

  “Huntress, I killed the Lady of the Citadel,” said one man-atarms, pointing at Laksa’s head. “One crossbow bolt—skewered her through and through!”

  “And I decapitated her,” said the other, grinning and showing rotting yellow teeth. “I took her head to my captain—my lord cheval has rewarded us both.”

  “Too bad we had to kill her first,” said the first. “I would have liked to have her a few times before finishing her off. Like the cheval had his way with this one!”

  Here he leveled his pike and poked Aliuta, drawing blood and a loud cry of pain.

  He prepared to poke her again, and Caitlin saw red. Instinctively, she grabbed the shaft of the pike. With the expertise of countless hours of training, she twisted it sharply. Aided by the element of surprise, she wrenched it from his grasp. She spun the shaft around and held it in an offensive stance.

  Her wrap slid off her shoulders. She was an incongruous sight in her sea-green gown, delicately balanced on her narrow high heels. Snowflakes caught in her fiery mane and sparkled like jewels, but she ignored the cold. The men-at-arms spread out in an arc, eyeing her warily but hungrily. But the trooper who had lost his pike looked vicious.

  “The cheval has commanded us to keep you safe,” he spat. “Otherwise I would show you how a fighting man treats an uppity woman.”

  “A fighting man, are you?” taunted Caitlin. “Then draw your sword! Or is your manhood insufficient to deal with a real woman?”

  This gibe was too much for him to bear. It blinded him to his fear of the cheval and to the disadvantage of his sword against the long pike. With a roar, he drew his longsword and advanced on her, weaving to evade the leveled pike. Caitlin backed away with mincing steps and moved the point of the pike in anticipation of his moves. Everything he does, just backwards and in high heels, she thought, the popular Zon joke about the patriarchy seeming particularly appropriate. Seconds ticked by, but time stretched out and seemed much longer to actor and watcher alike. He feinted to his left, but Caitlin guessed correctly and moved the point of the pike at the last instant.