by Tia Reed
“Lord Hudassan would not be sorry to learn you were dead, mahktashaan,” Werril said.
So they did know. Arun nodded his defeat, rolled his legs over the hole and dropped down. The hatch clapped shut with brutal finality, encasing them in the hopeless dark.
The boat sailed fast through the thin murk. Water was sluicing under the crude patch. Werril had not been concerned about a permanent fix.
“How far to Pengari?” he asked.
“A day,” the sullen man answered as the boy and woman remained mute with fright.
And so he had the day to form a plan. A day to rub the ropes around his wrists on the rough edge of the patched hole until they frayed enough for him to pull his hands free. The rope around his ankles was more troublesome, but he detached thick splinters from the planks to force between the knots. His male companion was quick to copy him, saw through his own bonds, and join Arun in prising wood from the patched hole. Their small opening dipped below the waterline as ripples washed against the hull, allowing water to spill inside.
“As soon as we’re through, bang on the hatch. Scream,” Arun told the woman, untying her hands.
“Take us with you.”
He bowed his head in shame, for he could not.
From the sullen man, Arun had gleaned the lakes along the Bahmar River acted as filters. This close to Pengari, the water was almost clear, with most of the remaining murk coursing down the western tributary. Jabberweis avoided the faster current but the occasional croc still ventured into the northern arm. It was a chance Arun was willing to take. He dived through the hole in the hull, striking for shore through the flooding water. As the slavers fought to salvage the boat, to pull their live merchandise from the hold, he reached the muddy bank. His companion queried his intended direction as he splashed into the shallows, and then fled south without pause. Arun delayed long enough to ensure the slavers had the woman and boy in tow when they abandoned the boat. He was trained, focused and devoted. The slight head start was all he required.
Two fatiguing hours along the bank brought him to a stone bridge. Traffic flowed unrestricted in both directions. No challenge issued as he crossed into the city of narrow, twisting streets to lose himself in the flock of bleak faces trying to eke out a miserable living. Ducking into an alley, he clambered up a wall to steal a clean kurta and shalvar from a line strung between opposite buildings. A presentable man could enquire the way to the temple of a passer-by and receive a reticent answer.
It was a modest structure, its dome lower than the great block buildings which housed the populace. The straight sides of the Vae’s triangle were formed of white stone, the domes of the wide minarets tiled in the blue, green and brown of the Vae to match the sparse tiling on the three pistaqs. The brutish guards, dressed in a formal black turban, shalvar and tunic over a saffron shirt, seemed excessive.
“You!” the nearest barked, drawing a scimitar. “Move back.”
Three others lurched his way, weapons drawn.
“I only wished to pray,” Arun said as he executed a hasty bow and retreated into the swelling crowd. Hidden behind a group of whistling youths, he surveyed the area.
“Don’t be so hasty to get a glimpse. Lord Hudassan will have your head before he’s heard your name,” a slim, clean-shaven young man in rough clothing said.
“Is the lord is inside?” It would explain why the hordes lining the street showed no inclination to move on.
The comment earned him a queer look. “You’re not from Pengari.”
Arun gave a quick shake of his head. Judging by the density of the guard, there was no approaching the temple at ground level but the crumbling buildings at the edge of the triangle were packed with spectators. Young men tempted fate by leaning out of windows to wave their arms or sitting on the edge of the flat roofs.
“The lord commands a healthy respect,” Arun said.
The man laughed. “They’re celebrating Lord Ahkdul’s wedding in there. We’re all hoping to catch a glimpse of the bride. The beauty of Tiarasae, they say. Swimmer’s chance he’ll remove her veil, though.”
Arun began squeezing his way through the cheering masses the moment the man’s first sentence was complete. At the docks, he managed to steal a light anchor and rope from a boat unchallenged. Despite sending an apologetic plea to the gods, his luck was not limitless. The opportunity to take a sword did not present itself. He returned to the temple unarmed, and ducked into the closest building. No one cared a stranger had entered their abode, if that was what the squalid rooms, empty of all except fraying blankets and warped bowls could be called. On the roof, he suffered the rebukes of the young men gathered there, and pushed to the edge. From this vantage point, the opening in the centre of the main dome was obvious. He looked around as the tone of the conversation dropped.
“We don’t want no attention,” a gruff lad said, crossing his arms. Others closed in.
Arun planted his feet wide. He remained close to the precarious edge. “Since when are lads not up for fun?”
The lad’s eyes narrowed. “We like our heads where they are.”
“You can see I’m unarmed.”
“Not by our reckoning.” His eyes flicked between Arun’s face and the anchor.
“Not interested if the rumours about the princess are true?”
“Not worth my life.”
A smirking, sandy-haired youth with a resemblance to the first ducked between them. “How you goin’ to check?”
Arun allowed himself a little smile. “I’m going to take a look in the temple. Do you think our lord is so particular about what his satraps see?”
The surly lad snorted. “With that hook? Ain’t nothing here to hold it. Daft plan.”
“You’re peeved you didn’t think of it first,” the smirking boy said.
“He’ll never make it,” an older youth said.
“Five lek says he will,” Smirky said.
Bets flew around the roof until the young men were clamouring to take hold of the rope.
“Stand clear.” Arun swung the anchor above his head and threw it, letting the rope slip through his hands. The hook sailed across the gulf, landing in the central opening of the domed roof. He passed the end to the youths who used their combined weight to pull it taut. Hanging from hands and feet, Arun grappled across the triangle. When he gripped the edge of the hole in the dome, the cheers of the men on the roof swelled. Arun let out a sigh of relief and peered inside.
Its origin was lost in the mists of time but Mahktos’s column, every inch carved with His eyes, rose to the opening. Around it, on the tiled floor of the temple, the favoured of the realm were packed onto cushions, clapping with a fervour that marked the culmination of the ceremony. He spied Mariano first, standing solemn and proud in Terlaani burgundy to the side of a dour High One at Vae’oenka’s exit. By some twist of fate, the crown prince of Terlaan looked up. Arun ducked. By the grace of Mahktos, it would be impossible for the prince to have seen him at that angle. For her, he had to risk it. He leaned in and his mouth went dry. Ahkdul was leading the princess along Vae’oeldin’s painted wall, past a simple rendering of clouds and birds. They had dressed her in heavy silk, in the saffron of this realm, in a veil that hid all but her eyes, and a long-sleeved kameez which trailed behind her in concealing splendour. The elaborate, burgundy borders were a slight to her origin. Verdaan claimed this Terlaani princess, and proclaimed it to all. At the arched door into the ishwan, Ahkdul turned her to his guests and adjusted her burgundy veil. Mariano removed it, leaving her exposed for all the satraps and their wives to see. Arun’s chest grew tight. He was too late.
The couple emerged to the commoners’ roaring cheers. Hudassan walked behind them, and Mariano trailed. Arun waited until the satraps followed. With the temple clearing, he swung himself over the edge and risked an impious shimmy down the column. Halfway down, he braved a long drop to floor. He rolled as he landed, winced as his ankle twisted. The ritual words of praise in his heart, he kow
towed before the column. Vae’oenka would never have blessed this union but now it was sanctified, the goddess would expect it honoured. Mahktos, though, was as wild as the forces that had forged the Crystalite Range. In his disgrace, marked for death, the Old God might strike him down here and now, but Arun would not proceed without sanction.
I will atone for my dishonour. I will surrender myself to Your judgement without plea for myself. Grant only that I might see her safe from Ahkdul’s abuse. She has magic. She is one of yours. She deserves more.
Stone ground against stone. Reverent in his movement, Arun rose onto one knee. In the centre of the column the iris of one eye had turned crimson. Its lid closed, one blind eye among all the others. He drew a breath. Mahktos had acknowledged his prayer. He had done more than that. The central column was turning into pure light, a thousand eyes floating through it. Arun’s heart hammered. The beam might yet strike him down. The blind eye opened. His fingers curled on his thighs. Crimson light flashed to the corners of the temple, receded and dimmed to reveal the full face of the green moon and, suspended before it, a sword, the blade imbued with an eerie sheen, the hilt studded with emeralds and a single, larger piece of amber. Arun stood and presumed to reach into the light. His sweating hand closed over the jewelled hilt, and drew the sword out. It felt like it had spent a lifetime in his hand. Air whooshed as he swung the elegant, lethal gift from the gods. It was a blessing he had not earned. He dropped to his knees and looked up. The column was stone, carved with a hundred eyes.
The words of praise deserted him. He prostrated himself.
✽ ✽ ✽
The mahktashaan quarters were next to the apprentice chambers. It wasn’t like it was any secret. Gram and Naikil saw them gliding by all the time, hooded, robed and more often than not gloved. It was just that an apprentice didn’t have much business trotting this particular hexagonal hall with its extra-long sides, at least by their reckoning. The fact Vinsant was a prince and wearing a robe, even if it was a royal blue one, didn’t seem to change their mind.
“Apprentice Vinsant, this section is out of bounds to apprentices,” Mahktashaan Strauss of the plum crystal said, coming up behind him.
Vinsant jumped around. “Um. Its urgent I speak to Majoria Levi.” The doors to the private chambers were numbered but there was no indication of who resided in each.
“So urgent you cannot inform Mahktashaan Branak?”
“Er, yes. It’s about the ring.”
“The ring?”
Well that confirmed it. No one was bombarding him with questions because Levi hadn’t mentioned the relic. Not even to Strauss, who was a member of the Inner Circle. Which was mega suspicious when you thought about it. More suspicious than his instruction to keep secret both their inability to contact Arun and the fact they – they, not Vinsant, mind you – had found the ring.
“How are you settling in?” Strauss asked, encircling him with an arm to turn him around.
“Um, fine.” He had been a bit put out when he realised Father’s decree meant he was denied his chambers and very indignant when all he was assigned in the dim, stony lair was a small room with a tiny desk and plain bed until he found out the other apprentices were quartered two to a room. He glanced over his shoulder.
“I have a gift for you,” Strauss said, conjuring a light as he opened one of the doors. His outer chamber was hexagonal, no surprise, and furnished with an abundance of colourful cushions, wall-hangings and tasteful furniture. He picked a cushion embroidered with a tiger off a table inlaid with derral and presented it to Vinsant.
“Thank you. It’s awesome.”
“You are welcome to decorate your chamber. The apprentices don’t have a large number of belongings, and their stipend is small, but I expect you could fetch a few things from the palace.”
“I suppose.” If he dressed in black and doused all the candles as he stole past the guards in deepest night, staying well away from Father.
“Apprentice Vinsant.” The empathy in Strauss’s voice was at odds with his raised hood. It brought a lump to Vinsant’s throat. “Time tends to smooth over memory, and family bonds are both thicker and sweeter than scum.”
Did everyone know about how close his neck had come to breaking? “I stuffed up.” He hated having no one to confide in. He needed Arun but Arun had to be in the deep mines.
“However misguided, you must have had a reason to do what you did.”
“I had a good one.”
“Does the majoria know it?”
“Yes.”
“A mahktashaan’s first duty is to Mahktos.”
“His second is to the majoria.”
“The Inner Circle assists the majoria to divine Mahktos’s will.”
He was talking to a member of the Inner Circle. One who, hooded and robed, was speaking in his office. It didn’t sound like his trust of the majoria was complete.
“If I told you –”
“Mahktashaan Strauss. Apprentice.” Levi loomed in the doorway.
“I was looking for you. I remembered something,” Vinsant blurted. He shot a sideways glance at Strauss he hoped each mahktashaan would interpret in a different way. “About the ring.”
“You will come with me.”
“Yes, Majoria. Good night, Mahktashaan Strauss. Thank you for the cushion.”
He walked behind Levi to the end of the hexagonal hall, hugging the cushion because it was comforting. Levi opened the door in the short side. He conjured lights in coloured lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The room was as rich in soft furnishings as Mahktashaan Strauss’s. He didn’t know why had imagined sparse and black.
Levi pulled off his gloves and laid them on a round dining table. “What did you have to tell me?” His super apprentice didn’t even rate eye contact. Which was probably just as well when that apprentice couldn’t stop ogling the majoria’s burned arm.
Vinsant licked his lips. This next bit was going to be hard since he had promised not to lie, but summoning the ring hadn’t worked. It had to be under a magical taboo. So, he had to find out where Levi was keeping it in order to steal it back, the old-fashioned way. “I thought there might be some writing on the inside of the band.”
Levi moved into a bedchamber with the most amazing ornaments sitting on the mahogany wardrobe and cabinets. They were as elaborate as any the shah owned. He even had his own private statue of Mahktos sitting on a pedestal, a gold one with red glass eyes. It stood near the bed, which had a quilted coverlet of an awesome royal purple. He clicked the latch on a chest at the foot of the bed open, and brought out a jewelled casket which he set on a cabinet and unlocked with a word Vinsant didn’t catch.
“I do not see an inscription,” the majoria said. He pulled his hood down and tilted the gold band to the light. “Did you see one? What made you think it was there?”
The hitch of Levi’s upper lip and the scrutiny of his narrowed eyes was scary but Vinsant couldn’t give up now. “Maybe if it touches my quartz.” His stone was glowing crimson, incontrovertible evidence he was supposed to have the ring, if you asked him. He sure wasn’t going to ask Levi. He lifted it off his chest. Levi touched the ring to it. It wasn’t much of a surprise the gold remained flawless.
“Hmm.” The majoria’s moustache twitched.
“I’m sorry I bothered you, Majoria Levi.” A hasty retreat was in order now he knew where his treasure was buried. Especially since the majoria was fingering his quartz like he intended to claim it.
“I am well pleased you have kept silent about the relic, apprentice.” Levi enclosed the ring in his palm.
“Yes, Majoria.” Vinsant couldn’t help staring at that hand. The good one.
“Your loyalty has earned you the privilege of training with the older apprentices.”
Okay, that was enough to make a talented apprentice look into Levi’s black eyes. “In swordplay?”
One side of Levi’s mouth twitched.
“And magic?”
Hooray for the a
ffirmative nod. Vinsant couldn’t help the widest of grins. It smacked of bribery, but who cared? Naikil and Gram were going to be green with jaw-dropping envy. Too bad he wasn’t going to be around long enough to rub it in.
✽ ✽ ✽
Stinking of the liquor he had guzzled, Ahkdul rose from the chair of honour at a wedding feast laden with grease.
“For today you may walk beside me.” He held out his hand, most gracious in ignoring Kordahla’s full plate of roasted ribs, glazed wings and sauced steak. He had stacked the nauseating victuals on without a thought to her delicate stomach or a query as to whether she would have preferred pickled turnip.
Her veil would not be hiding her woe but let him believe the satraps would mistake it for nerves. She placed her soft hand in his pampered paw and allowed him to lead her in procession behind soon-to-be shah Hudassan and his brother, drug-lord Kamir. The strutting men were basking in the bows of the nameless satraps, a conceit that afforded her an undignified but undetected glance back. It was to her woe that Safra and Lord Kamir’s pregnant wife, Yasil, remained behind, gloating in the self-styled eminence of their brutal husbands and the glory of their own bejewelled necks. If Mariano had not been following, Kordahla might have collapsed. A morning vomiting through the preparations, an afternoon of ceremony in the temple kneeling before a sombre High One, an evening of subdued celebration, and she had yet more to endure.
They filed into the reception hall, decked down its length with quilted hangings bearing the vulgar Verdaani crest. The red sword through the mouth of an upright jabberwei epitomised the ferocious bloodthirst of the realm. It was hard to credit the small, greying man with the savagery necessary to subdue an entire people until he claimed the golden throne at the head of the room and she looked deep into his shrewd eyes. Kordahla was relieved to turn to their kneeling audience and listen to the seneschal proclaim the unbreakable union of their realms. When he gave permission for the audience to rise, she suffered Ahkdul to parade her across the dais for the upper classes of Verdaan to cheer. When they sat, she found her throne a little behind her husband’s. A woman in this patriarchal land was never permitted to forget her place. In front and behind, two huge windows were open to the stillness of night. In the east, in full view, Dindarin waned. Just past his third quarter, he dwarfed crescent Daesoa, waxing in the west. Tomorrow, the yellow moon would surpass the green. Hudassan had not been prepared to wait the thirteen days it would take for the moons to once again signal the balance of the genders. Her pleas Father should be present had been echoed by Mariano only until Hudassan had threatened to renege on their deal. Her virtue, their honour would best be served if she were wed without delay. And so. She was nothing but chattel to trade for the betterment of two realms.