The Rise of Nagash
Page 19
The young priest made a final note with his brush and glanced up at his master.
“Was the rite successful?” he asked. Nagash spared a final glance towards the mewling figures at the bottom of the cage and waved dismissively.
“It is too early to tell,” he said, striding carefully from the circle. “The transformation has only begun to take root. I shall know more when I return later tonight.” The Grand Hierophant folded his arms across his chest. “Have you seen to the preparations inside the city?”
Khefru nodded gravely as he capped the ink-pot and set his brush aside. The past six years had taken a toll upon the former noble. Though still very young by Nehekharan standards, the priest had grown haggard and sunken-eyed in service to his master’s increasingly dangerous pursuits. His face was sallow and puffy from too many nights spent in wine houses searching for his master’s victims, and he’d taken to shaving his head to conceal the streaks of grey that had begun to sprout at his temples. The long scar on the left side of his face cut a jagged white furrow across his fleshy cheek.
“All is in readiness, master,” he replied. “The house has been made ready, and the slaves know their tasks.” Nagash studied Khefru warily.
“You sound reluctant,” he said. Khefru closed the tome carefully and lifted it from the writing table.
“It is not for me to say, master,” he answered, returning it to a shelf laden with similar volumes.
“True enough,” the Grand Hierophant replied. “Tell me, nonetheless.”
The young priest considered his words carefully. “What you are contemplating is reckless,” he began. “These men are cowards and fools. They will betray you in an instant—”
“They will have far more to gain from me than from my brother,” Nagash cut in. “Just as you did, if you recall.”
“That’s not how they will see it,” Khefru persisted. “They have no power, no wealth or influence. Thutep and the great houses would crush them, and they know it. No amount of persuasion will convince them otherwise.” Nagash smiled coldly.
“Persuade them? Hardly. When the time comes, they will have persuaded themselves.”
Khefru’s gaze drifted to the cage at the far side of the room. His expression grew strained.
“Haven’t we tempted fate enough?” he asked. “I’ve lost count of all the people we’ve killed. Rumours are starting to spread through the river districts.”
“Fate?” Nagash spat. “Fate is a notion that weak minds use to excuse their failures.” The Grand Hierophant stepped close to the young priest. “Have you grown weak, Khefru? Our work has only just begun.” The young priest met Nagash’s eyes, and his face went pale.
“No, master,” he said quickly. “I’m not weak. Command me, and I will serve.” Nagash studied Khefru’s face for a long moment.
“Let us go, then,” he said, and turned away.
Khefru watched the Grand Hierophant leave the dimly lit chamber and begin the long, winding trek to the surface. A wet, gurgling cough came from the deep shadows within the cage. With a last, dreadful look at the squirming forms inside, the priest hurried quickly after his master.
It was approaching midnight in the world beyond the crypt. Neru hung, bright and full, above the vast necropolis, limning the stone structures in ghostly silver light and creating pools of inky blackness in the narrow lanes between, while Sakhmet, the Green Witch, shone baleful and red just above the eastern horizon. Nagash and Khefru made their way alone among the houses of the dead, listening to the chatter of jackals among the poorer crypts to the south-west. They encountered no dangers on their trek to the distant road. In times past it was not unknown for gangs of thieves and grave robbers to prowl among the vast city of tombs, but that had come to an end within the last few years. Rumours abounded in the city that something dark and terrible had taken root in Khemri’s necropolis, and those who braved its streets after dark were never seen again.
The Grand Hierophant had certainly not lacked for subjects in the early days of his studies, nor had his tutors lacked for entertainment.
They walked in silence along the mortuary road, past neglected shrines half-covered in sand and marked with bird droppings. Bright moonlight painted the slopes of the distant dunes and silhouetted the broad sweep of a heron’s wings as it took flight from the river bank to the north. A pack of jackals followed the pair a short way from the necropolis, their low-slung forms loping along the crests of the dunes and their eyes shining like polished coins as they studied the two men. With every mile, the scavengers edged closer and closer to the pair, until finally Nagash turned and fixed the largest of the pack with a challenging glare. The pack leader held the necromancer’s stare for a few moments, and then let out a ghoulish, yapping cry and disappeared over the crest of a sand dune with the rest of the pack close behind.
The gates to the Living City were shut for the night, but the Grand Hierophant was allowed in without so much as a challenge. By ancient tradition, the priests of Settra’s cult were allowed to come and go through the Gates of Usirian at any time of the day or night, owing to their duties among the crypts outside the city. Beyond the gate, the streets of the Temple district were quiet. Distantly, the two men could hear the faint chants of the priestesses of Neru rising from their temple compound as they went about their nightly vigil, warding Khemri from the spirits of the wastes.
Just beyond the temple district, Khefru led his master to a predetermined alley, where a palanquin and eight nervous-looking bearers waited. Nagash was ushered quickly inside and the bearers set off at once, making their way into the Merchant’s District and turning north, where wine houses and dens of vice lined the side streets just south of the city’s wealthy neighbourhoods.
Here the streets were still well-travelled, even at such a late hour. Groups of drunken men staggered to and from the taverns and gambling houses, or crouched outside the shops and passed jars of beer or played games of dice. Young, grubby-faced children ran along the lanes, offering to help the drunkest souls find their destinations, and relieving them of their coin along the way. Fights broke out as dice games grew heated or drunken arguments got out of hand. Small bands of dour city watchmen prowled the area armed with lanterns and stout, bronze-capped staves, scattering the worst troublemakers with angry shouts and sharp blows to the offenders’ shoulders and legs.
The palanquin made its way unnoticed among the late-night revellers and scowling watchmen, finally turning right down a narrow alley close to Coppersmith Street. Khefru jogged ahead of the palanquin to a recessed door lit by a small, hanging oil lamp. The priest rapped softly as the bearers lowered the palanquin to the ground. With a rattle of bolts, the door swung open just as Nagash emerged into the night air. Glancing warily up and down the dark alley, the Grand Hierophant stepped quickly through the doorway into a small, rubbish-strewn courtyard. Two of Nagash’s household slaves bowed low to their master and quickly secured the door behind him.
The Grand Hierophant took in the courtyard with a single, disdainful glance. Sand covered the cracked flagstones, and weeds grew in the stagnant water of a long-dead fountain. Rats scuttled through the shadows along the foot of the pockmarked walls.
“This hovel was the best you could find?” he asked Khefru.
“You wanted anonymity, did you not?” Khefru said archly. “Would you have preferred a manor in the noble districts, in full view of every gossiping slave and meddlesome widow?” He surveyed the decaying home with a satisfied nod. “Places like this are common near the seedier quarters. Nobles or traders buy them up and use them for trysts, and then sell them off again when the mood suits them. The locals see people come and go from them at all hours and don’t think twice, and it’s just down the street from some of your guests’ favourite haunts.”
“Fine, fine,” Nagash snapped. He turned to the two slaves. “Are all in attendance?” he asked.
“The last arrived an hour ago, master,” one slave said as he shot the last bolt home.
“Take me to them,” he commanded the slaves.
Nagash followed the two men across the courtyard and through an open doorway, into a narrow, unfurnished corridor lit by a pair of guttering oil lamps. More slaves were bustling up and down the passageway, bearing empty jars of wine or platters of half-eaten food. The sound of a muffled voice emerged from the far end of the corridor, followed by raucous laughter.
The slaves led the Grand Hierophant down the passageway and through a series of small, empty rooms cluttered with bits of broken furniture. Each room was more brightly lit than the last, until Nagash found himself in a well-lit antechamber adjoining the house’s large common room. The buzz of voices and the clink of metal cups sounded from the other side of a pair of curtained doorways on the opposite side of the antechamber.
Nagash waved the slaves aside and, with a brief glance back at Khefru, he straightened his robes and stepped quietly through the nearest doorway.
Unlike the rest of the house, the common room had been richly appointed with furnishings from the Grand Hierophant’s apartments at the royal palace. The floor was covered in fine rugs made in distant Lahmia, and fine divans set with silk cushions had been arranged in a rough circle around an imposing chair made of dark, polished wood. A dozen young noblemen lounged on the divans or sprawled on the rugs, drinking wine and picking at scraps of fish or fowl from copper plates laid out among the revellers. The aromatic smoke from expensive incense curled from braziers in the corners of the room.
Heads turned as the Grand Hierophant entered the room. Faces flush with wine and ribaldry wore expressions of bemusement, and then surprise, as the guests recognised the man who had come late to the feast.
Nagash stepped forwards, pausing beside the chair of dark wood reserved for the dinner’s host. As the drunken voices fell silent, the man reclining in the chair straightened with a chuckle.
“What now? Will we have dancing girls?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “With skin as pale as moonlight and hair as black as—” His lecherous smirk turned to wide-eyed shock as he saw who stood beside him.
Nobleman and priest stared at one another for a long moment. Then Arkhan the Black began to laugh. The Grand Hierophant’s expression turned grim.
“Do I amuse you?” he asked in a quiet voice. Arkhan smiled, revealing his ruined teeth.
“We were speculating who our mysterious host might be,” he said, lapsing once again into laughter. “Raamket thought it might be another attempt by the king to keep us out of the wine houses.” He raised his glass to Nagash. “And here you are.”
Raamket, a dark-eyed brute of a man with the face of a dockside brawler, glared daggers at Arkhan. The other nobles burst into drunken laughter at their friend’s discomfort. Another noble, a man named Meruhep, fished a baby eel from a bowl in his lap and studied it in the lamp light.
“Our friend Raamket seems to know a bit too much. Perhaps we have a spy in our midst!” he said, tilting his head back and noisily slurped the eel down.
More laughter filled the room. Nagash waited in silence until the merriment died away. He eyed Arkhan coldly. After a moment, the nobleman’s smirk faded and he rose sullenly from the chair. Nagash settled gracefully into the seat.
“A crude attempt at humour, but the sentiment is accurate,” the Grand Hierophant said. “In fact, the reason you are here is because you know firsthand how misguided and dangerous my brother’s rule has become.” Arkhan snorted into his wine cup.
“The only danger I can see is death by boredom,” he said. “Those Grand Assemblies get more excruciating by the month.”
“My brother treats you all like children,” Nagash said. “It’s humiliating, not just for you, but for Khemri as well, because it reveals to the world that our king is a weak man.”
“What would you do in his place?” Meruhep asked with a smirk. “Drag us all into the bazaar and cut off our hands?” The Grand Hierophant ignored the question.
“Thutep has convinced himself that humans are innately compassionate and charitable,” he said. “He thinks that if you sit through enough royal courts the virtues of civic responsibility will seep into your heads like drops of cool water. He fancies that he can persuade the kings of Nehekhara to put aside centuries of warfare out of enlightened self-interest and the temptations of trade.” The words dripped like venom from Nagash’s tongue. “And how has our city profited in the last six years? The great houses of Khemri ignore his royal summons whenever they see fit and act according to their own interests. Entire neighbourhoods in the noble districts lie empty because the embassies of our brother cities have been seduced away by Zandri. The City of the Waves has usurped Khemri as the greatest city in Nehekhara for the first time in centuries. And for what? So that Thutep can negotiate lower grain prices with Numas and import rugs tax-free from Lahmia. That is what we have traded our pre-eminence for, beads on an abacus.”
Several of the nobles shifted uneasily at the vehemence in Nagash’s speech. One of the men, a handsome, easygoing rake named Shepsu-hur, leaned back on his divan and eyed the Grand Hierophant warily.
“If things are as dire as you paint them, holy one, why haven’t the great houses moved against Thutep?” he asked. “Wasn’t that how your dynasty came to exist in the first place?”
Nagash gave Shepsu-hur a sharp glance, but then a reluctant nod. Khetep had been of royal blood, but he was not the son of Rakaph, the previous king. When Rakaph had finally died his wife, Queen Rasut, had defied ancient law and claimed the throne for a short time, fearing that the kings of Numas or Zandri would try to supplant her infant son and claim the city for their own. Ultimately, the Hieratic Council of Mahrak managed to persuade Rasut to yield the throne and return to Lahmia, where she died a short time later. Khetep, Rakaph’s trusted vizier, was appointed to rule the city as its regent until Rasut’s son reached adulthood.
Within a month of Rasut’s death, her young son died of a sudden fever, and Khetep became Priest King of Khemri.
“For the moment, the current situation favours the great houses,” Nagash continued. “Under my father’s rule, their power and influence were kept in check, but now they can flout the king’s law and build their fortunes however they choose.” He shrugged. “No doubt in time one of the houses would believe itself strong enough to seize the throne, but they will never get the opportunity. Zandri means to become the pre-eminent power in Nehekhara, but for that to be possible, Khemri must be forever broken. King Nekumet is gathering his strength even now. In a short time, perhaps a few years, he will grow bold enough to march against us. When that happens, the Living City will bow its knee to Zandri and forever become its vassal.”
The assembled noblemen did not know how to respond to Nagash’s bald declaration. Many looked to their wine cups or glanced surreptitiously at their fellows. Only Arkhan ventured a reply.
“These are grim tidings indeed, holy one, but what do you expect us to do about it?” he asked. “We have no power, wealth or influence.” The nobleman gave the Grand Hierophant a ruined grin. “I suppose we could challenge Nekumet to a drinking contest, or a game of dice. How would that be?” Raamket glowered at Arkhan.
“I wouldn’t try,” he muttered. “I’ve seen the way you throw dice.”
The room erupted in gales of laughter at Arkhan’s expense. The nobleman bared his blackened teeth and snarled drunken oaths at his friends, and for a few moments all the talk of kings and conquests was forgotten. Nagash simply sat, patient and unblinking as a snake, until finally the laughter died and the faces of his guests were solemn once more.
“Power is a fluid thing,” he continued, as though the interruption hadn’t occurred. “It changes hands more easily than one might think. Surely my brother is a prime example of that.” Nagash studied each of the assembled nobl
es in turn. “You are powerless now, that is true, but that could change.” Arkhan leaned forwards, setting his cup on the floor.
“You could arrange such a thing?” he asked.
The Grand Hierophant smiled coldly. “Of course,” he replied. “The old ways are coming to an end. Khemri will have a new king, and he must be served by cruel and ruthless men, men who are not afraid to bloody their hands and make people fear the Living City once more.” Nagash studied his assembled guests in turn. “You can be wealthy and powerful beyond your wildest dreams, if you are the ruthless men I seek,” Meruhep noisily slurped down another eel.
“You’re a fool if you think you can become king,” he sneered. “You’re a priest. The Council at Mahrak would never allow it.”
“Those frauds have no power over me!” Nagash snarled, his hands clenching the grips of his chair. “Their authority is a lie, and one day I will cast them into the dust. They have bound us to the will of the false gods for long enough!”
The young noblemen stared wide-eyed at the Grand Hierophant, too shocked to speak. Meruhep shook his head disdainfully, fishing about in the bowl at his lap. After a long moment, Arkhan broke the silence.
“I am a ruthless man, holy one,” he said quietly, “but you knew that already, or else I would not be here.”
“I am as well,” Raamket said heatedly. “See if I am not.” Shepsu-hur chuckled softly.
“I can be ruthless when the mood takes me, holy one,” he said.
One by one, the other nobles added their voices to the chorus. Arkhan had been correct, Nagash had chosen each man carefully, based on recommendations from Khefru. For all their youthful bravado, they were desperate and wretched men, deep in debt and lost in their vices. The promise of wealth and power tempted them beyond reason, and none of them had much to lose beyond their wasted lives.