Empress Maisa’s hand was on her cheek. She was gaping at him, speechless with rage. Isiq met her eyes, unflinching. There was no hope without perfect honesty. Not at this hour. Not in this life.
Then Maisa laughed. “I will benefit from this exchange. No one has dared lay a hand on me since my mother passed, when I was twelve. It is a very long time since I was twelve.”
“I did not come here to serve you,” said Isiq.
“What then? To strangle me? You had better do it now, don’t you think? I have made it very easy for you.”
“I will never be your pawn, Empress. Never your unthinking tool. I was long a tool for Magad the Fourth, and even longer for his son. I committed atrocities because I did not let myself think. My beloved wife was killed, murdered by Sandor Ott, because I could not imagine that I was merely a device, a puppet worked by unseen hands.”
“Neither could they,” she said. “I mean our enemies, yours and mine. That is the greater tragedy. Ott has been the unwitting tool of Arunis, and worked tirelessly to undermine the very Empire he thinks he defends. Magad agreed to a war conspiracy centered on the Shaggat Ness and your daughter, never dreaming that he too was dancing on a string. A failure of imagination, partly. And yes, you were guilty of the same.”
She laughed again, turned away, ran her fingers over the exquisite table. “So was I, Admiral. Fifty years ago. The barons and the warlords and the great men of Arqual—they were jackals, hyenas. Next to them you’re a cultured philosopher. They only let my father crown me because we were losing the war. That was still a great secret. We were going to lose, we were going to be routed, our children would all speak Mzithrini. But soon, they knew, it would burst out onto the streets of Etherhorde. And when it did the hyenas did not want the blame. Let the street think it was a woman’s incompetence. Let them hang her when the Black Rags close in for the kill.”
“But you did not lose the war.”
“No, the Shaggat saved us then. His rise crippled the Mzithrin when they could least afford it, and gave us time to rebuild our forces. I did not fail—how they hated me for that! And even more so for not wishing to stab the wounded Mzithrin Empire through the heart when it was down. My peace emissaries were real, Isiq. Chadfallow’s mission to Babqri City was real. This half century of madness need not have happened, this world need not today be so blighted and burned—if only thinking had been valued over tribalism and blind allegiances. Over unthinking service, as you say.”
She gazed up at the great flag over her chair. “I accept your declaration, Admiral. It is what I hoped for. But I could not possibly have let you know about my enterprise.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you had not joined that enterprise I would have fallen. One word from you to the Emperor would have sealed my fate. Magad has never ignored your warnings, Eberzam Isiq.”
“And now that I am disgraced?”
“But you are not disgraced,” said Maisa. “You are presumed dead, and that is altogether different. As everyone in Alifros knows, you were last seen following the bearers of your daughter’s corpse through the streets of Simjalla, on Treaty Day. All was terror and confusion. Perhaps you were picked up and tortured by the Mzithrinis.”
“I was tortured by Ott.”
“Ah, but that is no tale to warm the hearts of Magad’s subjects. No, yours was a tragic death. If the Black Rags did not get you, then surely you collapsed of a broken heart, and were stripped of your wedding finery by a mob, and buried with the many beggars and tramps who perished that day. Or you returned to the Chathrand in secret, to accompany your beloved daughter to her final rest in Etherhorde, only to go down with the ship off Talturi. Such are the rumors in the capital.”
“Ott said he would poison my name.”
“Ott said whatever he thought would break you. But here is where fate has sided with us at long last. The Secret Fist truly believes that you are dead. How that miracle was accomplished I would very much like to know. I gather it has something to do with that plague of rats?”
Isiq closed his eyes a moment.
“Never mind, never mind. Why would the Secret Fist pillory a dead man whom the Empire adores? Why waste a hero, when his death can provoke such a frenzy of patriotism? Magad did quite the opposite: he lionized you. He sent his own son, blind Prince Misoq, to the temple to pray for your soul. There is a bust of you already in the naval academy—”
Isiq looked up. She has a spy in the academy!
“—and when they open the little garden commemorating the wreck of the Chathrand, there is to be a tribute to you engraved in stone. You are still their tool, Isiq. You cannot escape them even in death.”
Isiq’s breath had grown shorter as she spoke. He was slipping. He should have foreseen everything Maisa had just told him. Great heroes like Magad needed the shoulders of lesser heroes to lift them.
“As for involving your daughter in my plans, that is quite absurd,” said the Empress. “Sandor Ott and Arunis manipulated your family, Isiq. Ott selected Thasha to be the sacrificial bride; Arunis turned the plot to his favor.”
“Ramachni does not serve you?”
“Oh, for Rin’s sake. His mistress was the great Erithusmé, and none other. I haven’t the least idea what your daughter is to him. Mages guard their secrets as fiercely as monarchs, it appears. Ramachni came to me a decade ago and begged for help in guarding her. ‘I need a man of flawless honesty,’ he told me, ‘but a fighter, too, and a thinker.’ ‘Why not ask for a demigod and be done with it?’ I said. All the same I gave him my right arm: Hercól of Tholjassa, and sorely have I missed the man.”
“You must have suspected that there was more at stake than the life of one girl.”
“Of course I did. And now I’m sure of it: Suthinia Pathkendle has been able to verify that much merely by watching her children’s dreams. Your daughter is somehow extraordinary, Isiq. Erithusmé herself was the first to notice.”
Isiq looked at her dubiously.
“I know,” said the Empress. “You thought Erithusmé was a figure out of fairy tales. But she was as real as Arunis, and indeed more powerful. Suthinia tells me she owned the Chathrand outright, long before the ship passed into Arquali hands. What’s more, the mage came to Etherhorde less than a year before Thasha’s birth. Don’t ask why: Suthinia doesn’t know, and Ramachni never breathed a word about it.”
“You never had plans for her? For Thasha, I mean?”
Maisa shook her head. “None at all. Though I was practically the only one in Alifros without them.”
“And now?”
Maisa looked at him a moment, then stepped to the wall and pulled on a rope. Isiq heard no bell, but moments later a servant appeared. “Rum,” said the Empress. “Two glasses. The better stuff, the Opaltine.”
When the servant was gone she looked back at Isiq. “This is a special occasion. I have a small fortune in liquors, here, for my guests. One must try to keep up appearances. But I almost never drink. This will be the first time since early Umbrin.”
“I am flattered that Your Imperial Majesty chooses to make an exception for me—with me.”
“And were you impressed with Gregory and his freebooters?”
“I have never been more masterfully smuggled.”
She gave a sudden laugh. “He is good at what he does. His buffoonery is an act, and so is his selfishness. He may not much care for Arqual or its fate, but he cares very much about his own beloved Ormael—so near at hand, and yet closed to him forever. That is true patriotism: to go on loving the land that spits you out, reviled. They still call him Gregory the Traitor there, you know. But Gregory Pathkendle is also a man of vision. He married Suthinia, and he knew when to leave her. I began to court his help at Suthinia’s urging, and little by little I gave him my trust. Of course that culminated with Treaty Day.”
“And your visit to Simja,” said the admiral. “I remain astounded that you hazarded so much, merely to show your face to a handful of princes.
”
“Can you really believe that was all?”
When Isiq said nothing, she waved a dismissive hand. “Soon enough, soon enough. Gregory came through brilliantly, that’s what counts. And yet there was still a chance that he was helping us for purposes strictly his own: revenge, maybe? Revenge on the Empire that had burned Ormael? Even after he returned me safely to these fens, I thought that might be the case. Now of course we may dispense with that particular theory.”
“Why is that, Your Highness?”
“Because he had you under his thumb for a week. If he wanted revenge for that bloody massacre he would have started with you.”
Isiq flushed. Perhaps he always would at the mention of Ormael.
“Gregory is of course just one of my operatives. As this is just one of my strongholds. It has all been excruciatingly slow. How could it be otherwise, when a single betrayal would end it?” She looked at him, chin high, and her gaze was bright and steady. “We are almost there, Isiq. Almost ready to strike.”
The admiral nodded, but his eyes flicked away. Nine hundred soldiers. Perhaps this was all a great vanity, an old queen’s way of jeering at death.
“Your Majesty,” he said (for one had to say something, before the silence did), “when did you learn that I was alive?”
“Nine or ten weeks ago,” she said. “King Oshiram informed me, of course.”
And was that, Isiq wondered, when you had your last drink?
“I decided then and there to give my trust to Oshiram,” she said. “I have not rued the decision. He was a fool to let himself be played so long by the Secret Fist, but it was hope for peace that tempted him, and to that temptation only the noblest yield. Besides, he will not be played again. As with you, his pride has been deeply stung.”
Maisa paused again, considering. Then she said, “He did it, you know. He put Syrarys in jail.”
“Thank Rin for that,” said Isiq quickly.
“He is not thanking Rin. I am told he fell very hard for that creature, and struggles with despair.” She smiled darkly. “Perhaps that is why he does not mind entangling his fate with my own.”
“He has joined the cause, then?”
“Not officially, not as King of Simja. But yes, I believe he has. And he knows more of how I shall achieve my aims than any other monarch alive.”
“Then I am sure he knows more than I do. Will you tell me, Empress?”
“Of course not. But here’s our rum.”
The servant was advancing with a silver tray, which he placed on the table. Maisa poured, then handed Isiq a glass. He smiled his thanks (the good stuff, if she only knew how he needed it) but the Empress did not smile in return. They stood silent until the door closed again.
“Forgive me,” said Isiq. “My loyalty has yet to be sufficiently tested, isn’t that so?”
“Correct. I am impatient to confide in you, as it happens—but I have conquered nothing in my exile if not impatience. No one learns my plans until they prove themselves, and you are not yet on par with those freebooters out there, gobbling clams on the balconies.”
He bowed his head. He deserved this much censure, it was true.
“Tell me, Isiq: has Magad kept up the gardens in Etherhorde? Do the flying foxes still roost in the silk trees?”
“I have heard that they do.”
“And the arch of roses still shades the Pilgrims’ Esplanade?”
Isiq hesitated, then shook his head. “No, Empress. The arch collapsed under its own weight, five or six years ago.”
She looked stricken. He tried to imagine her a young girl, arms spread wide, running the length of that bee-busy tunnel of flame. But the girl his mind was showing him was Thasha, always Thasha. He cleared his throat.
“May I at least know if your plans have gone beyond the theoretical?”
Maisa nodded slowly. “Yes, you may know that much. They have gone far beyond it—to a point from which there is no return.”
Nothing could have pleased him more.
“I will be blunt, Isiq,” she said. “I do need a tool. If you will not be that tool I expect my campaign to fall to pieces. It is not blind obedience I ask for. But you may be certain that I wish to use you, terribly and cruelly, in the pursuit of a better world.”
“And how can I prove myself worthy of your confidence?”
The Empress gazed at him sternly. There was a resolve in her that put his own suddenly to shame. “To begin with,” she said, “you can marry me.”
With that she threw back her rum.
10. The legend is, in the strictest sense of the word, pathetic. A lame and sickly peasant girl from the Northwest Province (later Chitai) received a midnight visit from an angel. This burning spirit declared that Etherhorde would be invaded by Sikand mercenaries in six days’ time; and further, that she would not be believed unless she told the Emperor personally, to his face. The girl’s father said that she was mad, and would not lend her their horse or hear of riding out on such an errand. But her brother believed the story, and set the girl upon his shoulders, and ran afoot through the Empire, day and night without rest. They reached the foot of Castle Maag on the evening of the sixth day, just as the Emperor was descending to the city for a meal. They waved and shouted by the roadside, but the king did not heed them, for he had many petitioners. Then before his eyes the girl’s brother dropped dead of exhaustion. Moved, the king halted his train and approached the girl, and when she told him of the angel’s message he believed her, and alerted the army, and brought the people of Etherhorde within the walls before the Sikands arrived. But the girl did not live an hour after her brother’s fall. The sun had withered her; she died of thirst. —EDITOR
13
A Task by Moonlight
25 Modobrin 941
Pazel’s leg grew worse in their first hours in Uláramyth. He took to bed, much to everyone’s relief, but the pain did not abate. The selk doctors frowned and whispered: the spittle of the flame-troll had burned deep into his flesh, and even penetrated the bone. To fight it they had to probe deeply themselves, extracting tiny particles of filth and sand, cutting the dead flesh away. For Pazel the ordeal was very strange. He was in agony; at times he could not keep from screaming aloud. And yet somehow the pain was a distant thing. He observed his own suffering as though from a mountaintop, where a part of him remained at peace. Was it the magic of Uláramyth, or had the selk given him some rare draught that divided body from mind?
The next stage of his recovery was terrible, however. Chills and fevers raced through him, and his wounded leg became too heavy to move. He slept, but in his dreams he saw the Swarm of Night moving among the clouds over Alifros: huge and hideous. Where its shadow passed over the land, colors faded, growing things turned sickly, backs bent with weariness and care. And the Swarm grew larger even as he watched.
Then a morning came when he woke to the sound of shutters opening, and sunlight bathed his face. Neeps was at the window, dressed in fine new clothes, a boy prince on holiday. When Pazel sat up he turned, beaming, then rushed to Pazel’s side.
“Well, mate, you look like you recognize me, and that’s an improvement. How’s that blary leg?”
“Fine. Marvelous, actually. What do you mean, recognize you?”
Neeps said that in Pazel’s delirium he would wake but appear not to see anyone, or to know where he was. “You were peaceful, fortunately—no mad capers like Felthrup. And the selk told me that faraway look was a good sign. They said it meant you were busy, fighting back to strength.”
“They were right,” said Pazel, kicking away the bedclothes. “Is there anything to eat? I’m famished.”
“You should be,” said Neeps. “Four days you’ve lain in that bed. There’s food in the common room—if you’re sure that leg is steady.”
“Steady!” Pazel laughed and sprang to his feet. “I feel as if I could run.”
“Try it and I’ll smack you,” said Thasha from the doorway.
She was dressed wi
th simple elegance, like Neeps, and her golden hair was braided in a style he had never seen before. She came to him slowly, eyes thoughtful and serene. Pazel could feel her health when he embraced her.
Neeps looked away, instantly unsettled. “She wouldn’t budge from your side,” he said stiffly. “We were thinking of tying her to a tree.”
Thasha stared hard at Neeps a moment. Then she flung an arm around his neck and pulled him close, and kissed both boys’ foreheads until they laughed and squirmed.
When Pazel had dressed they stepped out into the sunny courtyard. The white dog Shilu rose to greet them, but there was no one else about. Neeps handed Pazel a bowl of rice and vegetables, and Pazel attacked it, not bothering to take a seat at the table.
“Where is everyone?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“Exploring,” said Neeps, “except for Hercól and Ramachni, who will be studying the Nilstone and discussing the Swarm with the elders. And Cayer Vispek, of course. He’ll be crouched in some little room, praying or contemplating death.”
“Neeps!” cried Thasha.
“I’m not blary exaggerating. The man even makes Neda uncomfortable, and she half worships him. Sorry, mate, but it’s true. And if you ask me it’s real work to be unhappy in this place. It’s been just four days, but I feel as if I’d rested four weeks, at home on Sollochstol, with my gran fussing over me.”
“It’s the food,” said Thasha, “and the water, and the air. It’s richer, somehow.” She looked around. “That’s strange. Bolutu and Lunja were here a moment ago. I wonder why they ran off so quickly.”
“Because we’re here,” said Neeps, “and soon enough we’ll all wake up and find ourselves back on some stony trail, cold and damp and surrounded by wolves. Finish eating, piglet; there’s glory awaiting.”
Pazel finished, and they walked out into Uláramyth with Shilu at their heels. Thasha and Neeps had not done much exploring (Pazel suspected that they had both been watching him night and day), but they had seen something of the immediate area. The township was called Thehel Urred, and tiny though it was, it brimmed with hidden gardens and waterways and strange alleys tucked just out of sight. They showed Pazel a fountain where marble cranes strutted in glittering spray; a woken tortoise who dozed beneath a brysorwood tree, mumbling in his sleep; a pool from which a water-spirit was said to emerge in the hour before dawn; a hedge maze where Bolutu had gotten lost chasing beetles and dragonflies, until Big Skip went in after him, unwinding a string.
The Night of the Swarm Page 29