Shadowplay s-2

by Tad Williams

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “My life.” The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he had almost smiled. “It’s not much, but I’ve some use for it still.”

  The man would not be lured into speaking anymore. Qinnitan lay back and put her arm around Pigeon to comfort him, but she could not help thinking what it would feel like to roll over the water into the cool embrace of the ocean and a comparatively simple and swift death by drowning. If it had not been for the shivering child beside her she would have gone without hesitation. Anything would be better than looking into the autarch’s mad gaze again, feeling his gold-netted fingers scrape her flesh. Anything except the knowledge that she had left poor, mute Pigeon behind. But what if she wrapped the boy in her arms so they could go down into the peaceful green depths together? She could hold him while he struggled, then take a gulp to fill her own lungs. No, Pigeon wouldn’t struggle. He would understand... The man released the oars, letting them dangle in the oarlocks while he looped a length of cord around the bench on which they sat and tied one end to each of their ankles.

  “You shouldn’t think with your eyes, girl.” In the distance behind him she could see the stony strip of hills called the Finger and its occupied forts jutting from the water, silhouetted against the reddened evening sky, surrounded by ships bearing the autarch’s Flaming Eye of Nushash— an all too vivid reminder of what it was to face Sulepis’ own burning stare. “But it’s a bit late to learn now.”

  Vash did not want to go on another voyage. He had barely recovered from the last. What good was it to reach a venerable age and be one of the most powerful men in the world if you still could not stay choose to stay on dry land?

  He swallowed his irritation, since it would do no good, and steadied himself against the rocking of the anchored ship before stepping out of the passage into the autarch’s great cabin, a hall of wooden beams a hundred paces long that ran half the length of the ship and most of its width, and was hung with fine carpets to keep in the warmth even during the coldest sea storm. At its center, seated upon a smaller version of the Falcon Throne (tethered to the deck to protect the Golden One’s dignity during times of unsettled seas) was the man who could make Pinimmon Vash do such uncomfortable things.

  “Ah, Vash, there you are.” The autarch extended a lazy hand, gold glinting on his fingertips. Other than jewelry, Sulepis wore nothing but a linen kilt and a massive belt of woven gold. “You are just in time. That fat Favored whose name I never remember...” He waited so long that it was plain he wished the name supplied.

  “Bazilis, Golden One?” Outside, on the cliffs above them, one of the great crocodile-cannons boomed and the ship’s timbers creaked. Vash tried not to flinch.

  “Yes, Bazilis. He is bringing me my gift from Ludis. The god-on-earth is a happy god today, old man.” But Sulepis did not look happy: in fact, he appeared even more feverish and intent than usual, the muscles in his jaw twitching like those of a hound anticipating a meal. “We have waited and worked a long time for this.”

  “Yes, Golden One, we have. A very long time.” The autarch frowned. “Have you, too? Have you really, Vash? And have you gone without sleep for weeks on end to read the ancient texts? Have you wrestled with...things that live in darkness? Have you wagered your godhead against your success, knowing that simply hearing of the torments that await you if you fail would kill an ordinary man? Have you truly worked and waited as I have, Vash?”

  “N-no, no, of course not, my astonishing master! I did not mean ‘we’ in that way, not truly...” He could feel sweat budding on his old skin. “I meant that the rest of us, your servants, have waited anxiously for your success, but that success, that...mastery...will of course be all yours.” He cursed himself for a fool. An entire year serving this poisonous youth and he still had not learned to ponder every word before it left his mouth! “Please, Golden One, I meant nothing disrespectful...!”

  “Of course you didn’t, Vash. You are my trusted servant.” The autarch smiled suddenly, a flash of white as bereft of kindness as the bite-grimace of a canal shark. “You worry too much, old fellow. My gaze is everywhere. I am aware of how loyal my subjects are, and especially of what my closest servants do and think.”

  Vash swayed a little—too little to notice, he prayed—and wished he could sit down. The autarch was hinting at something again, surely. Was it the remark the new Leopard captain Marukh had made? But Vash had not agreed with him—in fact, surely he had upbraided the man! But it was also true that he had not gone straight to the autarch to report the man’s treasonous impertinence.

  If I denounced every man who chafes under our new autarch’s rule, he thought desperately, the autarch’s strangler would die of overwork and the Orchard Palace would be empty of anything except ghosts by year’s end.

  He bowed his head, waiting to find out if he would live another hour.

  The autarch lifted his hands before his eyes, frowned again as he examined his finger-stalls. “I am wondering if I should wear the ones made in the shape of a falcon’s talons,” he said. “In honor of the upcoming fall of Hierosol. What do you think, Vash?”

  The paramount minister let out a silent sigh of relief. Another hour, at least. “I think it would be a suitable honor to your ancestors, especially...” He paused, determined not to say anything troublesome, but could see no problem. “... Especially your great ancestor Xarpedon, who carried the Falcon all across Xand.”

  “Ah, Xarpedon. The greatest of us all—until now.” He looked up as a servant stepped silently through the curtained doorway and stood, head lowered, waiting to be recognized. “Yes?”

  “Favored Bazilis is here, Golden One.” “Good! You may step aside, Vash.”

  The paramount minister moved through the ring of attendants toward the cabin wall, and wound up standing next to the golden litter of the scotarch, a gilded conveyance only slightly smaller than the autarch’s own. Crippled Prusus peered out of the litter’s window like an anxious hermit crab. Vash nodded to him—a formality only, since everyone knew the scotarch was simpleminded and did not notice such things.

  Leaning back against his throne, Sulepis waved for the eunuch to be sent in. Bazilis entered a moment later, grave and immense in his robes; it took him some time and a great deal of rustling of fabric to abase himself at the autarch’s feet.

  “O Master of the Great Tent, blessed of Nushash...” he began, but was silenced by the stamp of Sulepis’ sandaled foot.

  “Shut your mouth. Where is he? Where is the prisoner?”

  “Out...outside, Golden One. I thought you would wish to hear of my...”

  The autarch kicked out. The eunuch whimpered and fell back. He crouched and looked up at his master in fear, his hand rising to his face where blood already welled from his lip. “Get him,” the autarch said. “I am waiting for him, you fool, not you.”

  “Y-yes, Golden One, of course.” Bazilis backed out of the massive cabin, still on his hands and knees, his brightlyrobed bottom waving in the air.

  Sulepis turned to Vash with the slightly prim expression of a tutor. “Out of courtesy to our guest, we will speak Hierosoline in his presence. How is yours, Vash?”

  “Good, good, Golden One, although I have not used it much of late...”

  “Then this will be an excellent chance for you to practice.” The autarch smiled like a kindly old uncle, although the man he was smiling at was more than three times his age. “After all, you never know when you might be called on to administer a continent where Hierosoline is the chief tongue!”

  While Vash pondered what sounded like a bizarre promise of advancement to viceroy of all Eion, the prisoner appeared.

  Vash could not help noticing that the man the eunuch and the guards marched into the cabin seemed like another kind of animal entirely in comparison to their master the autarch. Where Sulepis was young and tall and handsome, with golden, close-shaved skin and a high-boned, hawklike face, the northern king was startlingly ordinary, his brownish beard thi
ck and not very well tended, his dark-ringed eyes emphasizing the pallor of his confinement. Only the way he stared back at the autarch betrayed that he was anything other than some petty merchant or craftsman: it was a calm, thoughtful gaze, measured and measuring. The only person Vash had ever seen look so unmoved in the autarch’s presence had been the murderous soldier, Daikonas Vo, but a smile that would never have been on Vo’s face flickered around the northern king’s eyes and lips. The more he thought about it, the more astonished Vash became that Olin’s expression of contemptuous amusement, subtle as it was, hadn’t driven the autarch into one of his sudden rages. Instead, Sulepis laughed.

  “There you are! My fellow monarch!” He raised an imperious finger. “Bring a seat for His Majesty.” Two servants scuttled across the great cabin, then hurried back, carrying a chair between them. “I have waited so long to meet you, King Olin. I have heard so much about you, I feel as if I know you already.”

  Olin sat down. “How interesting you should say so. I feel very much the same.”

  “Oh ho!” The autarch laughed again; he sounded as though he were genuinely enjoying himself. “And what you think you know you do not like, do you? A good joke. We will be friends. In fact, we must be friends! If we insist on formal protocol, our conversations will be so long and so dreary— and we will be having so many conversations in the days ahead. I look forward to it!”

  Olin folded his hands carefully on his lap. “So you will not kill me yet?”

  “Kill you? Why would I do such a thing? You are a prize, Olin Eddon—worth more than gold or ambergris—worth more than the famed rubies of Sirkot! I have been doing my best to lay hands on you for the longest time!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Vash could not help cringing at the northerner’s tone of voice—one simply did not talk to the Golden One that way, not if one wished to keep one’s skin stretched over one’s meat. But instead of calling for Mokori, his favorite strangler, the autarch only chuckled again. “But of course,” he said gleefully. “You could not know. In fact, I wonder if, with all your learning, you will understand even when I explain to you.”

  Olin regarded the monarch of all Xand with a combination of interest and growing discomfort. Vash was oddly reassured—he had begun to wonder if his master was truly as mad as he seemed, or if he, Pinimmon Vash, were simply losing perspective, so he was glad to see he was not the only one who found Sulepis puzzling. “It does sound as though you do not intend to kill me today.”

  “But I already told you that!” Sulepis feigned astonishment. “You and I have much to do, see, and speak about. First, though, we really must get you cleaned up. Ludis has taken shocking care of you.”

  The northern king inclined his head. “May I ask what price you paid for me? Or was I a gift to you from Ludis—a sort of welcome present?”

  “Ah, Olin—you do not mind if I call you Olin, do you? You may call me Golden One, or even...yes, you may call me Great Falcon.”

  “You are too kind.”

  “Ah, we will get along splendidly. You have a sense of humor!” The autarch leaned back in his throne, flicked his hand at the servants. “Take King Olin and let him bathe, then feed him. Give him one of my tasters so that he can dine with a peaceful heart. We will speak again later, Olin— we have much to discuss. Together we will remake the world!”

  “You seem very certain that I will agree to help you with this...grand project.” Olin tilted his head, examining his captor; Vash could not help admiring the poor, doomed savage.

  “Oh, your agreement is not necessary for my success,” the autarch told him with a sympathetic little frown. “And, sadly, you will not live to see its fruits. But you may rejoice in knowing that you were indispensable—that without you, the world would have remained lost in shadow instead of gaining the salvation of the great light of Nushash—or of Nushasha Sulepis, to be precise, for that is who it will be this time.” Now he favored the foreign king with the lazy smile of a predator too full to eat but not too stuffed to terrify a few lesser animals. “As I said, we will speak later, Olin Eddon—oh, we will speak of many things! We will be something like friends, don’t you think? For a little while, anyway. Now, go enjoy your bath and your supper.”

  The man who had kidnapped Qinnitan had only to produce a few parchments from an oilskin envelope—documents with the seal of the autarch himself prominently displayed— and the sailors and soldiers on the great flagship Flame of Nushash scuttled to do his bidding. Just when she wanted life to slow down to the slowest crawl the immense Xixian bureaucracy could provide, everybody around her seemed to be swarming as busily and industriously as ants. The three of them were escorted up the gangplank by soldiers —some, she could not help noticing, in the same Leopard helmet that Jeddin had worn, the architect of her current misery. Why had she not denounced him the moment he had begun his mad talk of loving her? Because she had been flattered? Or because she had pitied him, glimpsing the fretful child she had once known inside the hardmuscled body of the soldier? Whatever the case, he had doomed her with his love as certainly as if he had drawn his dagger across her throat: this trip up the gangplank was only the ending of something that had been inevitable from the first moment of his foolish treachery and her equally foolish silence.

  At a murmured aside from their captor Pigeon was taken in hand by one of the Favored. She was about to protest, then realized that although the boy was desperate to stay with her, being separated from her was his best hope.

  “Ssshhh,” she said, and then told him an awful lie. “I’ll be back. Everything will be fine. Just go with them and do what they say.”

  He was not fooled. As he was led away he wore the shocked, disappointed look of a dog tied to a tree and left behind by its master.

  The Leopard officer who had now taken charge of Qinnitan and her captor asked if he wished to make either himself or his “gift” ready to be received.

  “I was told to bring her to the Golden One with all speed,” the hunter said. “I am sure he will forgive me if I take him at his word.”

  The officer and one of the more important of the Favored looked at each other apprehensively, but the courtier bowed. “Of course, sir. As you say.”

  Qinnitan took a shaky breath as they were led down the long, surprisingly wide hallway of the rocking ship. She felt nothing, or at least nothing she could recognize. If she had fallen into the water this moment, as she had imagined doing earlier, she knew she would sink straight down. She felt cold and hard and dead as stone.

  They paused outside the doorway of the ship’s central cabin while the Leopard officer discreetly and almost apologetically searched the man who had caught her. The chief of the Favored did the same for Qinnitan. The eunuch’s breath smelled of mint and something sharper and fouler, the stench of a rotting tooth, perhaps; at any other time she would have been revolted by his touch, but now she just stood and let herself be handled like a corpse readied for burial. There was no point in feeling anything. No use caring.

  The Favored led them through the door and across the broad cabin toward the tall man seated on a plain chair at the center, legs spread, booted feet planted firmly on the ground, examining the documents Qinnitan’s captor had given to the courtiers.

  It was not the autarch.

  “All hail High Polemarch Ikelis Johar, Overseer of the Armies!” said the Favored, striking his staff three times on the cabin’s wooden floor.

  The general looked up, his heavy-browed face turning from Qinnitan to her captor. “Vo, is it? Daikonas Vo. I think I have heard the name before—your father was a White Hound, too, am I right?”

  So the empty-faced man who had taken her had a name, Qinnitan realized—not that it mattered. Soon she would be beyond remembering any name, even her own.

  “Yes, Polemarch.” The man seemed a little taken aback, although his face was still stony and indifferent. “Forgive me, Lord, but can you tell me when I may see the autarch? I was given very specifi
c orders...”

  “Yes, yes.” The general waved his calloused hand. “And you have done well to come here swiftly and without waiting. But as it happens, you have missed the Golden One by a matter of half a day.”

  “What?” Vo seemed, for the first time, quite mortal. “I don’t understand...”

  “He has gone in one of his swiftest ships, The Bright Falcon, leaving me behind to watch over the rest of the siege.” The polemarch grinned. “And leaving me as governor over Hierosol when it falls, as well. I shall have my hands full trying to keep the men—especially your comrades in the Hounds—from burning the place to the ground. They are fierce and hungry, and have waited a long time for this.”

  Qinnitan was stunned. She done her best to prepare herself to see the autarch’s terrifying smile and she felt as though she had stepped off a cliff where she had expected to set her foot on hot coals. She didn’t know what to think, except that her torment would go on a little longer, her death would be a little delayed, and she had no idea what she felt about that.

  The Overseer of the Armies slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. He was tall, and looked half again as heavy as Daikonas Vo. “Well, then, if you just pass the girl over to my servants we will keep her most safe until the autarch returns.”

  “No.”

  The polemarch, who had begun to turn away, pivoted slowly on his heel, surprised. “No? Did I hear you say no to me, soldier?”

  “You did, Lord. Because the Golden One himself commanded me to bring him the girl with all dispatch—me and no one else. I will need your fastest ship.”

  The high overseer looked from Vo to the rest of the courtiers and soldiers standing in the room. His mouth curled, but the smile did not hide his annoyance. “My fastest ship, eh? You are insolent, even for one of the Hounds.”

  Vo had recovered his equilibrium. He stared back. “There is nothing insolent in serving the Golden One just as he commands—in every word. Our master was most insistent.”