by Jack Conner
Janx said nothing, but the lines around his mouth deepened and turned down.
“How’d you and Muirblaag meet?” Avery asked him, honestly curious, but also hoping that the recounting would put Janx in a better mood. Avery leaned back, feeling the heat of the flames in the fireplace behind him.
Hildra groaned. “Don’t encourage him. Story changes every time.”
Janx glared at her mildly. “The truth never changes.”
“Does when you’re tellin’ it.”
Janx grinned slowly, and Avery was heartened to see it.
“Mu and me, we met out at sea,” Janx began. “This was back during my pirating days. Mu had lammed it from Hissig to get out on a debt he owed Boss Tarl. Made his way halfway across the water ‘fore his ship got hit and he wound up in the slave pens of me old ship, the Sara Ann. Captain Pink Eye—an albino from the west—he liked to sell mutes to alchemists on Crimlaw. Well, me and ol’ Pink Eye, we never did get on, and things came to a head when ‘e said I was cheatin’ at cards.”
“And you never did,” said Hildra.
“I’m wounded at the merest suggestion. So, ol’ Pink tries to put me in irons. I had enough mates, though, that I made a fight of it. Knocked me way down to the slave holds and told the mutes if they fought fer me I’d set ‘em free. Never did truck with slaves or ‘chemists, an’ I’d had half a mind to do it earlier. Well, with them at my back, I made a stand of it. Pink got the drop on me, but Mu stuck him right in the neck with an old rusty shiv. I kicked him overboard, and a big ol’ crab-fish scoops ‘im up in its pincers and takes him down. Me and Mu fought side by side against the rest. Afterwards I made ‘im first mate.
“‘course, Pink Eye wasn’t independent. The wee admiral of our fair privateerin’ company was the one and only Red Sethyc, and he didn’t ‘preciate me takin’ over for Pink Eye. This was especially ‘cause I refused to take slaves, which were good money. He set his dogs on me, and me and the crew of the Sara Ann had to haul it but good. Mutiny after leaving Hakk-na. Mu was the only one that stuck by me in the end. They had the decency to give us a boat an’ a ragtag suit. No food or water, though, an’ only a day’s supply of air in the tank.”
Hildra cleared her throat. “Last time it was two days’ supply.”
“Quiet. I’m about to tell of the mad scientist’s isle. Me and Mu, parched and hungry, wash up ashore on this fabulous island ...”
Someone knocked on the door, and all heads bent in that direction.
“Come in,” Avery said.
Jynad peeked in. He looked pale, even fearful, and for some reason he seemed unable to look any of them in the eye. Avery leaned forward, suddenly experiencing a wave of foreboding.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
Jynad swallowed. “Lord Haemlys—he’s invited everyone to a feast.”
“A feast?” Hildra said. “Isn’t his whole life a feast?”
Jynad shook his head wretchedly. “You don’t understand. He’s given up on the intervention of the gods. He’s decided to treat with Octung directly.”
Avery and the others stared at him. None could find anything to say.
“The Octunggen delegation should arrive soon,” Jynad said. “He’s holding a formal dinner to receive them.” In a low voice, he added, “He’s not expecting many to attend, so he’s inviting everyone. Please come at once.”
As soon as he left, Layanna emerged from her bedroom, yawning, and said, “What did I miss?”
* * *
The Throne Room was empty of revelers and orgies. Only a small, grim gathering hunched around the largest, most central feasting table. To Avery’s surprise he did not find Haemlys there. A score or so of the God-Emperor’s cronies sat sipping ale and wine and looking miserable. Long faces stared at each other, then glanced hastily away.
Some glanced up at the approach of Avery and the others, but they said nothing as the newcomers sat down, even those that moved aside for them. Avery perched on a sturdy oak bench and rested his elbows on the table. Greasy plates heaped atop it with random joints of meat thrusting out. Bejeweled goblets had toppled and stained the beautifully-polished wood, and flies buzzed about, alighting on one plate, then another. Some of the nobles made halfhearted efforts to swat at them. Evidently there had been a minor feast before the main one. The vomitorium would be well used today.
“Excuse me,” Avery said, “but where is Lord Haemlys?”
Hostility and pain flickered across their faces. It was the latter that intrigued him. Just when he didn’t think anyone would answer, one woman—middle-aged, in the elaborate dress and headgear of a duchess of antiquity—said, “I rather think he’s hiding his face.”
“And with good reason,” said a man across the table from her. His butcher’s countenance belied his puffy sleeves and pantaloons. He gazed at Avery and the others, as if mildly curious at their general otherness.
Janx leaned forward. “Why’s he done it?” His Ungraessotti was better than Avery’s. “Why’s he agreed to talk to the Octs?”
One foppish young man snorted in a rather un-lord-like fashion. His floppy green velvet hat slouched over the side of his head. “He’s decided Ungraessot can’t hold back Octung much longer, and if it tries it will only be destroyed,” he said.
“Which it will,” added the middle-aged woman that may or may not be a duchess. “But we would die with dignity.”
Avery gazed around at the greater room, thinking of the debauchery that was starving the general populace. “Right,” he said. “But to simply give up ...”
She nodded, the folds under her neck bunching. The white powder coating her face had begun to liquefy under the barrage of her sweat, and the resulting grease drizzled down her ample cheeks, her forehead and tangled in her carefully-trimmed eyebrows. “We can’t believe he’s decided to treat with them,” she said.
“Treat with the bastards!” As if enraged all over again at the merest thought, the butcher-faced man slammed a fist onto the table. His goblet jumped.
Another woman leaned forward. Though young and attractive, one of her eyes was obviously made of glass. In low tones, she said, “You know it’s the only way, Surdan. If the Octunggen keep coming, they’ll obliterate us. They’ll conquer Ungraessot like they’ve conquered everyone else, and what do you think will happen then? We’ll be the first ones they kill. They’ll execute us in bloody public spectacles to show the people their leaders are dead and they must look to Octung for control. They’ll burn the temples and kill anyone who refuses to worship the Collossum—and that will only be the beginning. Then will come the purgings, the slave camps, the experiments ...”
Surdan glared at her. “And you think they won’t do the same if we surrender?”
She started to say something, but evidently could not. Chagrined, she sat back.
The foppish gentleman, who sat beside her, patted her hand. “It’s all right, Sis. I for one agree with you. Treating with the Octunggen likely won’t save us, but it’s our only hope. They do seem to honor their agreements.”
“Until it becomes prudent for them to do otherwise,” added the middle-aged woman.
“It will buy us time,” insisted the fop.
“Time for what?” growled the butcher-faced man, Surdan.
The younger man gestured vaguely with his hands. “Time to organize ... regroup ... maybe fight back.”
“You’re a fool. They’ll kill us all immediately.”
The white-faced woman’s voice was sharp. “Then what do you suggest?”
Surdan glowered at her, then slumped back, weary and disgusted. He ran a hand over his face. “Perhaps this way is best,” he said. “This way at least the Octunggen may spare our people.”
Janx grunted. “Yeah. You lot seem like a real people-first bunch.”
The silence at the table was sudden and chilly.
Avery cleared his throat. “What my friend meant was, Where is Lord Haemlys? Is he actually treating with the Octunggen now?�
�
It was the white-faced woman that spoke. “No. He’s preparing to meet the delegation here. They’re traveling by aeroplane and should be here any minute.”
Avery turned to the others of his group and said in Ghenisan, “This is the worst possible news. Not only for Ungraessot, but for us. The Octunggen delegation will completely distract Haemlys. We won’t be able to speak with him at all.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
Avery spun to the new speaker, who stood directly behind him. It was, to his shock, Lord Haemlys himself. Dressed in his finest royal clothes, with a burgundy-and-purple cape depending from his broad shoulders, his beard carefully combed, his lobster claw adorned with burgundy ribbons and golden baubles, smelling of fine cologne, he looked a much different man than the one Avery had met last night. Though, by the way he blinked his eyes and scowled, it was clear he suffered some degree of hangover.
“You speak Ghenisan,” Avery said.
“I speak a hundred languages.”
Not bothering to argue with the obvious exaggeration, the nobles at the table greeted him loudly, but there was no true enthusiasm in their helloes, and he seemed to realize it. He pulled at his beard and frowned out over them.
“I know my decision isn’t the popular one,” he said. “I know you have your doubts, and with reason. Yet I cannot stand idly by while our country collapses.”
“But you’re a god!” said one.
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I am a messiah of greater gods, as have all those of my line been. But my greater gods, the gods of my fathers and the Father of My Fathers, have all abandoned me. Perhaps I am unworthy. I don’t know. I will continue to make sacrifice to them, pray to them, but I cannot depend on them. Thus I must treat with devils.”
There was some outcry at this, shouted arguments and curses, a few praises here and there. Avery was impressed by how Haemlys weathered it all, just standing there, regal and poised, especially after his display last night. At last he raised his true hand to placate those of the table. They calmed in fits and starts.
When he had their attention, he said, “It’s the only way. Now—prepare yourselves. I’ve been told the delegation has arrived and is being taken here. I want my friends around me in my time of need. We will feast them and wine them, win them over with our hospitality. Any treating that shall be done shall be done with them drunk and fucked to within an inch of their lives.”
There were some reluctant nods and smiles, but most of the guests simply looked grim. Avery turned to see his group looking much the same.
“He’s mad,” Janx said, speaking in a heated whisper.
“Actually, I think he’s on to something,” said Hildra.
“Octunggen will not be swayed by food and wine and sex,” Layanna said.
“What will they be swayed by?” Avery asked.
“The promise of power. And I’m afraid that can only be had once the aristocracy is dead.”
Avery swallowed, remembering the dark times of Ghenisa. “So you think they should fight.”
She made an apologetic face. “Fighting would be futile. You cannot defeat Octung.”
He felt desperate. “What then?”
“Surdan is right. The nobles must sacrifice themselves to protect their subjects, at least as much as they can.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” said Janx, hiking a thumb at the room at large, referring to the halted debauch.
The main doors opened with a bang. Everyone jumped. People in conversation ceased talking. Even the priests quit slaughtering their animals. Flanked by guards and led by royal aides, a procession of Octunggen filed into the room.
“Holy shit,” said Hildra. “It’s really happening.”
“Octunggen don’t waste time,” Layanna said.
The delegation approached. The room’s lanterns, braziers and chandeliers glinted off the silver trimmings on their crisp black uniforms, shining boots, peaked caps, and sharp lines. Everything about their appearance was designed to invoke fear, awe, respect. And from the way they snapped their boots on the marble to the way they swiveled their ice-cold gazes around the room, taking it all in, they knew precisely how to evoke the feelings they wanted. There were about a dozen Octunggen, Avery saw, most dark-haired and gray-eyed, the Octunggen ideal, and they cut a neat swath toward the God-Emperor.
Haemlys, flanked by four royal guards, waited for them at the foot of the table. Other guards at the edges of the room stiffened and drew closer.
As the Octunggen approached, Avery could almost feel the temperature of the table decrease. The nobles drew away, just a bit.
With a snap of boots, the Octunggen halted, all in unison, directly before the God-Emperor. The aide that had brought them—not Jynad, Avery saw, but another—bowed to his lord and introduced the lead Octunggen, a tall man with steely gray eyes and more pepper in his hair than salt. His face was hard, businesslike, as if he were merely conducting a professional transaction from a place of some advantage.
“General Varicanus,” said the aide, “may I introduce you to his Great Eminence, the Lord of Ungraessot, Wielder of the Jade Scepter, Father of Horns, the Boar in the Woods—”
“Oh, he knows who I am already,” Haemlys interrupted. He stepped forward and gave a curt nod, not quite a bow, to General Varicanus, who returned the gesture, adding a stomp of his boot.
As one, the Octunggen behind him stomped their boots, as well, a peal of thunder in the hall.
“Shall we begin?” the General said. His voice was crisp and clear, his accent only seeming to sharpen his words.
Haemlys nodded, with just a hint of fear in his face. He gestured to the table. “Please, I would like you to join me at supper. I’ve had my finest chefs prepare a grand feast, just for you, and I would like you to enjoy some genuine Ungraessotti hospitality.”
General Varicanus visibly suppressed a frown. “If we must.” Avery was impressed that he showed no fear of poison.
Disgustingly obsequious, Haemlys ushered the Octunggen to the table, and his fellow nobles moved down for them, squeezing up against each other and shooting each other cold, hard looks. They clearly didn’t like this. Avery’s own skin crawled to be near the members of the delegation.
Even worse was the realization that he occupied a seat on the outer edge of the group of nobles. He would have to sit next to one of the Octunggen.
Just as he realized this, he heard a strange, familiar voice beside his ear.
“Is this seat taken?”
He looked up at the black-uniformed Octunggen that stood there. Short auburn hair framed a slightly squared jaw, and that old scar still showed on the bridge of her nose. Blue-gray eyes stared at him from over a slightly predatory smile.
“You,” he choked.
Sheridan’s smile widened.
Chapter 19
He felt cold all over as Sheridan sat down next to him. She moved smoothly, confidently, showing not the slightest discomfort. Indeed, she seemed amused, enjoying this. Her leg actually brushed up against his as she settled in. As if receiving an electric shock, he recoiled.
His mind spun, and he struggled for words, for comprehension. How was this possible? Sheridan should still be pursuing him on her ray, or perhaps she would have returned to some other duty by now, having given up on catching him and Layanna now that they had entered a foreign warzone.
Janx and Hildra found words.
“Holy fucking crap!” said Hildra. “It’s her!”
Janx glared at his former captain, his jaws clenching, fists shaking on the table. “The gall!!”
No one seemed to notice their exchange. The Octunggen were talking casually amongst themselves, the God-Emperor was making some jest to General Varicanus, who did not seem amused, and the Ungraessotti nobles were whispering darkly to each other.
Rage and frustration, confusion and fear all welled up in Avery, fighting for supremacy.
Sheridan only gazed at him sideways, pleased. “It�
�s good to see you, too, Doctor.”
At last one of his emotions won out. “It’s not so good for me, Admiral,” he snapped, then winced at the brittleness in his voice.
“At the moment I’m not acting as admiral,” she said. “I am here as a special advisor to the General.”
Janx reached for a fork. Its points glittered in the light of the candles that dripped and sagged on the table. “Retired from navy life, eh?”
She leaned back casually, to all appearances quite comfortable. “Perhaps not. We shall see. At the moment Ghenisa considers me missing, presumed taken captive. A sad fate that our rays were ambushed, our men taken prisoner.”
“I bet you loved that,” Hildra said. “You probably rolled out the welcome mat.”
“At any rate, here you are.” This came from Layanna.
Slowly, obviously relishing this, Sheridan turned her attention to the woman from the sea, satisfaction glimmering in her eyes. “You. At last. Let me say that it is an honor to break bread with one of the Revered.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
A rueful twist lifted one corner of Sheridan’s mouth. “You led me a merry chase. I almost thought you’d escaped. Fortunately our psychics traced your progress to Maqarl, and our spies were able to confirm you were in the Palace.”
Avery reached for a knife. “You have spies here?”
Sheridan eyed his knife, her amusement only growing. “We have spies everywhere. You of all people should know that.”
He forced himself to relax his grip on the knife. “So. You’re still on the hunt.”
She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “On the hunt? Oh no, my dear, I’m afraid the hunt has finished.” Her gaze flicked once more to Layanna. “I have my quarry in my sights.”
“That is not the same as catching it,” Layanna said.
“We shall see.”
The tension did not ebb as chefs wheeled silver-domed platters out and began to serve the opening round. This whole affair was a hasty, last-minute effort, Avery knew, without the pomp and ceremony it would have normally had—a necessary measure, he recognized—but those in charge did not skimp. Avery had never attended a royal feast before, despite being married to a noblewoman (however impoverished and in hiding), and he found himself in awe at the waste, at the extravagance, at the sumptuousness. Course followed course, from pâté to caviar to braised pork ribs to salad to grilled squid and rice to bowls full of batkin eyes (a delicacy) mixed with dates and nuts to ox tongue to haunch of goat stuffed with cloves to ... And all of it was served with the richest wine imaginable. His mind reeled. His palate staggered.