The Night of the Swarm

by Robert V. S. Redick

  On Bramian the message had long been expected. As Pazel had learned firsthand, the huge island contained many surprises, one of which was a secret colony of religious fanatics. It was the world’s only community of Nessarim, worshippers of the Shaggat Ness, outside Gurishal itself. They were just three thousand strong, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in eagerness and rage.

  For thirty years they had waited here, in exile. Thirty years of fever and snakebite; thirty years of raids by tribals with gauntlets of leopard claws, who ripped their victims open, chin to groin; thirty years dreaming of revenge. But not just dreaming. With Arqual’s help, the Nessarim had also built ships.

  Now the vessels stood crowded together on the sluggish river, bows pointing seaward. Forty ships—all armed to the teeth, at monstrous expense, by the heretic Emperor of Arqual. What of it? The worst heretics were the Mzithrin Kings themselves, who had slaughtered their families, and denied the divinity of the Shaggat Ness. Even now those Kings ruled over the Shaggat’s rightful empire. Now, when all the prophecies bespoke His return; now, when his Glorious Son walked among them once more.

  The Shaggat’s son. Five months ago, Pazel himself had been present when Sandor Ott brought Erthalon Ness back to the Nessarim. The man was clearly insane. He had spent his life tormented by the Arqualis, by Arunis, and above all by his lunatic father. He could not grasp his present circumstances. Pazel had tried to tell him the truth: that Sandor Ott had nurtured the whole colony merely as one gear in the machine that would topple the Mzithrin. That all their “prophecies” had been composed in the chambers of the Secret Fist, and spread by infiltrators. That their small fleet was meant only to discredit and demoralize the enemy before it was pulverized.

  Erthalon Ness had listened to Pazel, but in the end he had gone to his father’s worshippers all the same. And now he was leading that throng—shouting, screaming that the time of the victory had come. The clipper’s message was greeted with a war-chant that frightened the tribal people in the hills. The Nessarim were raised for martyrdom, and martyrdom can only so long be delayed.

  By the time the clipper reached Bramian, Maisa’s forces had liberated Ormael, and her partisans had spread her message over the whole of Arqual. Suddenly the news was everywhere. The Empress lived. Admiral Isiq lived. They had married, condemned the war, declared Emperor Magad a usurper. Some claimed that part of the Western Fleet had already gone over to her side. If the true scale of the rebellion was minimal, the people’s imagination was not. And with every traveler who landed or set sail from Arqual the story grew.

  The Secret Fist rounded up a great number of Maisa’s allies (together with many who knew nothing of her), and what became of those unfortunates hardly needs to be told. But they did not catch everyone. The next placards to appear in the streets denounced the spy guild itself as “an empire within the Empire, ruled by a depraved cadre of professional killers.” This was not a revelation; everyone knew the Fist was depraved. But very few had heard the next claim: that the organization

  … for reasons of Base Intrigue, engineered the Great Shame and Betrayal of Treaty Day, whereupon they sowed the seeds of this, their latest, Vile War.

  The spy guild panicked. Sandor Ott had never trusted his underlings: not since Hercól Stanapeth’s defection, at any rate. Since then he had concentrated power in his own hands, with the result that when the Chathrand sailed he had felt that no one could be trusted aboard her but himself. Etherhorde, consequently, was left in the hands of spies who were technically capable but unprepared to address a calamity. And the rebellion was a calamity now: the daily harvest of hearsay was too enormous to be fought by propaganda alone. Ambassadors were grumbling. Youths were tossing stones through barracks windows. Emperor Magad was using more deathsmoke by the day, and screaming for someone’s, everyone’s, head.

  Those who live in shadows are not immune to striking at them. Soon loyal ministers began to disappear, rock-solid generals were clumsily vilified, a Turach commander was snatched before the eyes of his troops in Ulsprit, who later received an anonymous tip as to his location, stormed the safe house, and found their leader dead from torture.

  None of this directly hobbled the armed forces. They knew their duty, and right now duty saw them being redirected in vast numbers to the Crownless Lands, with orders to eradicate the rebels and leave no living trace. But on 19 Halar a bomb changed everything.

  The Lord Admiral answered only to the Crown. He had never warmed personally to Isiq, but his respect for the fleet admiral, second in command of Arqual’s maritime forces, was boundless. Isiq had never lost a campaign, never questioned a deployment, never received orders from the Admiralty with anything but resolve to see them through. It was the Lord Admiral’s misfortune to have reminded Etherhorde of these facts, somewhat publicly, when the rumors began. He did not believe the rumors for an instant. Admiral Isiq was dead. Maisa was surely dead, or else confined to some shelter for the aged in Tholjassa. All this was hogwash, and he’d be damned if he’d vilify a hero of Arqual because of hogwash. This too he declared rather too loudly, and too often.

  The Secret Fist only wanted him to close his mouth. They might have achieved this in any number of ways, but chose the expedient of a black-powder bomb. The device was planted in the outdoor kitchen of the Lord Admiral’s residence on Maj Hill. The agents involved used the very finest of materials, including a smokeless fuse of Sandor Ott’s own invention, and a timer set for well after midnight. But in their haste to frighten the Lord Admiral, the agents overlooked the fact that his fifteen-year-old son and certain friends met in the kitchen many nights with cigars and brandy and other forbidden things. Four boys (all from military families) were present when the bomb exploded. The building filled with fire, and the Lord Admiral, hearing the screams, lost his mind and ran into the blaze himself. Thirty seconds later he emerged, carrying the still-burning corpse of his son.

  None of the youths survived, and the Lord Admiral himself succumbed to his burns within the hour. But as he staggered from the inferno, his screams of grief and hatred, his denunciations, were heard all over Maj Hill. By dawn they had become the chisel that would split the greatest navy in the Northern world.

  On the Island of Simja, King Oshiram II had spent the month flirting secretly with suicide.

  He put on a brave face, for it was vital that no one suspect. His people already knew what mattered: that he was the great royal fool of his times. He had been used shamelessly by Arqual, an Empire that any son of the Crownless Lands should have known better than to trust. Like a fish, like a mindless tuna, he had swallowed the Arquali bait. An end to war. A marriage to tie enemies together. A treaty to unfang Arqual and the Mzithrin alike, before they could send their armies raging again over the bloodied soil of the Crownless Lands.

  Oshiram had wanted to believe it, and in his eagerness he’d made others believe. He had summoned them, his peers from twenty lands. He had committed the unforgivable sin of making fools of them as well. Some of them had traveled months. Who could resist? Who didn’t dream of an end to war? And all Oshiram had shown them was another fiasco, a new upwelling of hatred between the Empires, and a young girl strangled before their royal eyes.

  No, they would never forgive him. Indeed the other six rulers of the Crownless Lands had just met on Talturi: Oshiram still had enough gossips in his pay to keep him aware of such momentous gatherings. Even if his fellow princes no longer wanted him joining the conversation.

  Then again, perhaps he was the subject of conversation. Perhaps they’d agreed to censure him, to dump Simjan goods into the Nelu Rekere, to punish his people along with their naïve king. Those parting looks at the gates of Simjalla City, those heads shaking in disbelief, the long silence when the last ships had left the harbor …

  Oshiram had come through all that. He had found a new purpose in the rescue and the healing of Eberzam Isiq. And shortly thereafter had come a miracle: he was in love, for the first time in his stilted, cerem
ony-clogged life. A former slave, a dancer, a beauty to stop the heart. She watched him like a frightened child, at first; no doubt she’d heard that all kings gobbled their women like sweets from a platter. She’d expected to be raped. Oshiram had treated her with gentleness and dignity, assigned her light chores and spacious rooms, sent her flowers and invitations—not summonses—to dine with him quietly if she would. He had wooed her: that was what it was called. And when at last she came to him, and loved him, he knew a joy beyond all telling. He forgot about intrigues and rat infestations and the duplicity of Arqual. He lived for this woman, lay awake longing for the morrow beside her, or slept and dreamed of her voice. He gave her rings, dresses, dogs, excursions to the hills, mad promises. His heart.

  Isiq had broken that heart with a word.

  The woman’s real name was Syrarys—formerly Syrarys Isiq—and she had been sent to him by none other than the Arquali spymaster, Sandor Ott. Years earlier, Ott had dispatched her to Isiq’s own household, and Isiq’s bed. Syrarys had poisoned the admiral for years, plotted both his death and that of his daughter, whom she had helped to raise. And if Isiq could be believed, she had even betrayed that serpent of a spymaster. Her true allegiance, he insisted, was to the Blood Mage, Arunis.

  If he killed himself, he would do it cleverly. He was not so selfish as to add a monarch’s self-inflicted death to the woes of his people. He must go sailing and fall overboard, or go riding and be thrown into a ravine. Yes, that was better. There were always moments alone on a hunt. A blameless death, and the crown to his younger brother, a man unburdened by shame. It could happen. These nights of misery could end.

  On the twentieth of Halar, as quiet hands lit a fuse in the kitchen of the Lord Admiral of Arqual, King Oshiram sent a page to inform his huntsman that they would be riding at dawn. He lay alone that night, sleepless. At ten that evening he sent his chamberlain by coach to a certain notorious address, with orders to bring back a courtesan; it had been decades since such women had lived in the palace. She arrived by eleven, and he took her to his bedroom and undressed her beside a roaring fireplace. She was very beautiful. When he touched her, he cried.

  His weeping terrified the girl. Rising, he told her to dress. At the doorway he handed her a note for the chamberlain: she would be handsomely paid. Alone again, the king went to the window overlooking the little pond where in summer (legend had it) the frogs spoke in the voices of his ancestors. He stood there until he was chilled. Then he pulled off his remaining rings, the ones not given to Syrarys, and threw them into the pond.

  At daybreak he ate standing up in the stables with the hunting party, as was his custom before such outings. It was perfect, this smelly, sweaty, anonymous end. Bitter tea, foul tobacco. Surrounded by horses and dogs and brutes who cared only that he rode well, and followed their lead in the woods.

  Almost perfect, that is: the chamberlain had infiltrated the stables. There were papers to sign before a day of leisure. And a message that had come the night before, when His Majesty had insisted on no interruptions of any kind.

  The king nodded, wolfing sausages: “Give it here, then.” He took the parchment, wiped his hands on his leggings, broke the oxblood seal.

  It was from the archduke of Talturi. Oshiram smiled: a last sting before the drop of the curtain. He scanned the letter indifferently. Then he froze, and started over, reading this time with care.

  Beloved Oshiram: I have just left a conference from which Your Majesty was, by necessity, excluded. If by chance you have learned of this meeting, I beseech your forgiveness. The circumstances, and the matter under debate, were quite extraordinary …

  He read on. Gods of death, they were ratifying the Simja Pact! He’d almost forgotten it existed: that framework for an alliance of the Crownless Lands against external aggressors. They’d dropped the initiative when peace between the two great Empires appeared to be achievable. Now the other kings had revived the pact—and wished him to lead it. They were asking him, begging him, to assume the role of Defender of the Crownless Lands.

  They are not many, our forces—perhaps one hundred vessels, and twelve thousand men—if Your Majesty should see fit to contribute to its number. They cannot repel the invaders where they are already entrenched. But with skill and Rin’s favor they may prevent the next entrenchment, or at least slow the bastards’ progress across our lands.

  All are in agreement: we must have you. Balan of Rukmast is losing his hearing, and brave Lord Iftan’s people cannot spare him: a volcano is bubbling and oozing across Urnsfich. There were other contenders. We argued long. But when the shouting ended there was relief in every face. Because we know you, Oshiram. Because in this time of infinite deception there is one Sovereign who never chose aught but truth and courage, and who saw before any of us that the world was changing, and that we must change as well. If you had not called Arqual’s bluff, not let them bring their sham Treaty to your island, how else would the truth have emerged? And when word came that you, in secret, had harbored Admiral Isiq …

  Someone belched. Oshiram lowered the parchment and gazed at the hunters blankly. Then a small, quizzical smile appeared on his face.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “it pains me to inform you that I cannot ride today. No, nor tomorrow either. Go and kill a buck without me. It seems the world has little intention of letting me go.”

  Finally, to the rebels themselves. Maisa’s land forces were paltry compared with the great legions of Arquali loyalists brought in from the east, but once back in the Chereste Highlands they were relatively safe. Officially, the Highlands had been annexed six years earlier, along with the city below; in practice, they were an afterthought. The Imperial governor himself had never set foot in what he called “those dull, drowsy hills.” And they were drowsy—until they exploded.

  One effect of this drowsiness was that, over the years, the governor had shifted more and more of his troops out of the Highlands and back to Ormael City, where they grumbled less and could be more cheaply maintained. By the time of Maisa’s declaration, the mountain checkpoints had become a form of punishment detail, and the total Imperial presence had dwindled to some five hundred men.

  When the rebels stormed Ormael, those five hundred had no chance. A quarter were killed outright. Eighty or ninety defected to the rebels’ side. The rest were stripped of their arms and driven down into the plum orchards, and left there to hobble barefoot to the city gate.

  But at sea matters were very different. Power in Alifros has always meant naval power, and in sheer numbers of men and ships the loyalists had an overwhelming advantage. The murder of the Lord Admiral and his son had cracked the navy’s unity, but that crack would take long months to spread. Meanwhile, loyalist ships filled ports from Étrej to Opalt. The nearest squadrons were less than a day from Ormael.

  Just three hours after Maisa’s speech in Tanners’ Row, a light sprang up across the Straits of Simja. It was a warning fire, lit by order of King Oshiram. Ships were making for Ormael from the east.

  The scramble was chaotic. Men who had hoped for a day or two ashore were drummed back to the ships; food and water casks were all but tossed aboard. New recruits scoured the city for weapons, hammocks, sea-coats, shoes. Romances just hours old fell to pieces, or were consecrated by marriages performed in Ormael’s ruined temples, the monks too stunned by circumstance even to object when couples appeared before them still reeking of love. Isiq and Commodore Darabik aborted their inspection of the boats of the Ormali volunteers, most of which were not swift or seaworthy enough to join the fight. No one seemed to know where the Empress was. Her ministers responded to the question with glares.

  Soon lookouts on the Chereste cliffs were able to spot the enemy: thirty warships in the vanguard alone. Some miles farther, a second wave was advancing, larger than the first.

  Isiq and Darabik received the news on the Slave Terrace, as they prepared to board their separate vessels. The two men exchanged a look. They had made but one move in this campaign;
their second would be a desperate retreat.

  “I should have married your sister, Purcy.”

  “The hell you say, my Prince. You were destined to take the hand of the Empress. One day soon I’ll be kneeling before you both at Castle Maag.”

  Isiq smiled and pressed his shoulders. One day soon.

  Then he tightened his grip and looked Darabik in the eye. “You must do something for me. Protect Suthinia, if and when you see her. Do your best to keep her alive.”

  Darabik’s black eyebrows climbed. “My word on it, Prince.”

  That was as much as either of them could say. Darabik knew that the Empress meant to keep Suthinia at her side. But not even he and Isiq could discuss Maisa’s whereabouts. The Empress had a new task: to appear everywhere, to stir rebellion in port after port—and then disappear before the loyalists could seize her. To roar like a tigress and vanish like a ghost. The ship she chose to board at any moment was therefore the greatest secret of the whole campaign. Each man who knew where to find her was a man who might be taken and tortured into revealing the fact.

  Maisa had shared just one point with Isiq: that she would not be leaving Ormael on his vessel. Isiq had all but revealed that fact to Darabik, with this talk of Suthinia. He did not, therefore, confess anything further: not his dark prognosis for the campaign, nor his terror of catching a whiff of deathsmoke, without Suthinia there to help him fight the urge. Nor his shameful inability to say goodbye to her, the witch he lusted for, and loved perhaps, the dreamer who saw Thasha in her dreams.

  “You don’t mind me taking over the Nighthawk?” Isiq asked.

  “I suggested it,” said Darabik. “She’s our finest warship, and belongs with the fleet admiral. And you should have pleasant sailing, too. The old men say it will be fine for a week.”

  “We are the old men, Purcy.”

  “Almost, my Prince. And we made a great mess of things, didn’t we? All those years under Magad. Years of loyalty to a symbol, a moth-eaten banner. A rotted man.”