by Carol Berg
I flew from one perch to another, seeking a place from which to observe the Hamrasch lords. At last I settled on a monument to some long-dead emperor and sat among the stone vultures who were pecking out the eyes of the emperor’s vanquished foe. From there I could stare into the grizzled face of Zedeon, the First Lord of the Hamrasch, a short, craggy, gray-braided veteran of the Basran war. He wore a golden tef-coat with no shirt underneath, the sleeveless garment exposing a broad chest and upper arms as thick as Kuvai oaks. A narrow red scarf was tied about his bare left arm with something held in the knot. It was a sprig of nyamot, the tiny white flower that bloomed after a desert rain.
Flanking Zedeon were his middle-aged sons, Dovat and Leonid, the two who had accompanied Edik to the palace. Their stern faces were no comfort for one who cared for Aleksander. I’d had occasion to observe Leonid when I was a slave. Intelligent, I had always thought him, well-spoken, always a surprise among a warrior race that prided itself on illiteracy. Ruthless, as were most powerful Derzhi, but not exceptionally cruel. Dovat, the younger of the two brothers, squat and rough like his father, I didn’t know at all. Leonid and Dovat also wore red scarves and the incongruous nyamot about their arms, as did every other warrior of their heged. Odd. Their family symbol was the gold tef-coat sewn with a howling wolf.
The procession passed beyond the gates of the inner ring of Zhagad. Inside the wall the onlookers, members of the lower houses, had been solemn as their betters passed them by, not mourning Ivan so much, I guessed, as weighing the chances for the future. A disputed succession was a fearful prospect, only slightly less disturbing than being ruled by a Derzhi son who would murder his father. Once the Emperor’s body passed into the outer ring, the crowds to either side of the roadway surged forward, women wailing, men hoisting sons and daughters upon their shoulders to see. The din grew deafening, and I fought the urge to streak for a nearby rooftop. As I passed back and forth above the procession, I was distracted by a glimpse of brilliant green among the crowd—a woman standing between two of the torchbearers that lit the way, the same woman I’d seen watching as I helped the fallen slave on my arrival in Zhagad. Were her eyes following my flight through the murky light? I circled closer, but she had already vanished into the crowd.
I maintained my watch upon the Hamraschi until the procession passed through the outer gates, traveling along the Emperor’s road between the paired stone lions that guarded the approaches to the city. On the desolate plain stood a massive pyre, built with trees dragged by chastou from the sparse forests of the eastern uplands. They placed Ivan’s body on a platform atop the pyre, and a giant Lidunni warrior wielded the sword to kill the Emperor’s horse bound near the foot of it. With torches carried from the temple of Athos, the acolytes set the base of the pyre to burning.
Derzhi funeral rites were magnificent—wild music and singing to wrench the soul, pageantry and customs that drew on centuries of heged traditions. Unlike their Basranni kin, the Derzhi did not engage in long-winded storytelling, but rather reenacted the glorious deeds of the deceased with dancing.
To the murmured astonishment of the assembly, Aleksander himself stripped off his mourning garments and, clad only in a loincloth and blood, danced the story of his father’s journey into the afterlife. With ferocious grace his long, lean body evoked the ritual battle with the sun god—a demonstration of the dead warrior’s strength and worth—and then a final acceptance of a seat at the god’s right hand. The dancing did not stop when the Prince returned to his place. Rather it became wilder as the night grew late and the flames grew high, the dezrhila dancers whirling in the rapture of ancient deities nearly forgotten in the glory of the young sun god Athos.
I fluttered through the smoke, watching Aleksander, watching the crowd, watching the Hamraschi. The hegeds sat in a circle about the burning mound. Old Zedeon sat cross-legged in front of a hundred Hamrasch warriors, his sword laid across the sand in front of him, as was the custom in times of war. Leonid and Dovat were no longer beside him, but rather sat with the representatives of other houses. As the night wore on, the two Hamraschi moved about the circle, always respectful, but eventually sitting with every one of the Twenty hegeds, whispering quietly with the lords. Aleksander, seated at the front of the Denischkar family, kept his eyes fixed on the pyre, but I suspected he had noted the Hamrasch brothers, too. Prince Edik sat behind Aleksander, his soft face expressionless. When the pyre caved in upon itself, exploding in whorls of sparks so that the heavens were adorned with a whole new array of stars, Edik smiled. And when the crowd began to wind its sleepy way back toward Zhagad, Edik, Leonid, and Dovat rode together.
“Horns of the bull, Seyonne, what are you doing to yourself?”
I knelt in the corner of a flower-decked balcony, retching into a stone planter and holding my head, praying my skull wouldn’t crack before I emptied my stomach. “Haven’t got the hang of this shifting business yet,” I said as I slumped back against the balcony wall, shivering in the dawn chill. “A useful skill, but no pleasure at the moment.” Another factor in my problem—the longer I stayed shifted, the worse was the return.
“So it was you hovering about all night.” The Prince stood in the open doorway, the rosy light revealing the haggard truth of his blood-marked, unshaven face. We must have looked a dismal pair.
“Thought I ought to keep an eye on things.”
Aleksander disappeared into the dim room for a moment, and then returned to the balcony with a crystal carafe and two silver goblets. He tossed one of the cups to me, and then sank heavily to the stone floor and poured wine. “So you saw the Hamrasch wolves on the prowl. Observing Edik safely in their grasp, I am forced to concede your point. It appears they have decided that another branch of the family must rule the Empire.”
“What is their grievance, my lord?” I sipped the wine. Though I craved water more than wine, I could not refuse the Prince’s hospitality, certainly not when I was asking an exceedingly uncomfortable question.
“Will you leave if the matter is not to your liking?” Aleksander downed his wine in one long pull, and then threw the delicate cup hard into the corner. Not the same corner where I sat, which was better than I might have hoped. His anger was not directed at me.
“If I can help, I will.”
The flare of temper was quickly extinguished. Elbows propped on his knees, Aleksander massaged the center of his brow. “I told you last year that I’d have to bring the Hamraschi into line. They challenged my authority.”
The Empire had seen increasing unrest in the previous year, at the time I was a prisoner in the demon realm. Blaise’s outlaw band had rubbed the hegeds raw, causing havoc by their pursuit of justice for the Empire’s populace. Several hegeds had declared their own war on the outlaws—and on Aleksander if he blocked their way. The Derzhi had stood at the brink of civil war. We had found a solution but had never believed it more than temporary.
“I planned to wed their children into loyal houses,” said Aleksander. “It’s the way of things among us ... you know that. So I married Leonid’s eldest daughter to Bohdan, the son of the Rhyzka first lord. The match was suitable. Rhyzka is a venerable house. The bride gifts were paid—fine horses, gold. No shame or disgrace save that I did the choosing instead of Leonid.” The Prince leaned back against the wall. “Only I didn’t know Bohdan. A brute. The worst ... bloody Athos, a rai-kirah would have been better. And the girl ... she was only ten. Bohdan didn’t wait. Within a month, the child was dead. The Hamrasch custom is to bury their women, so Leonid went to retrieve her body, and he saw what had been done to her. Her name was Nyamot.”
Thus the delicate flowers worn on the arms of the Hamraschi. A beloved daughter of a mighty house. “You are the arbiter of justice, my lord. Even for Derzhi, there are limits.”
“Well, you see, that’s been the problem with my position. My father would not rule his own empire, yet everything I did was subject to his decree. Publicly he sympathized with the Hamraschi, ruing my misjudg
ment in arranging the match. Privately he forbade me to punish Bohdan, as the Rhyzka hold the border beyond Karn‘Hegeth—the most dangerous frontier in all the Empire. I could strip him of titles, burden him with taxes and horse levies—petty annoyances—but I could not touch a man who would brutalize a child. I could not give him to the Hamraschi for justice. I could not allow him to be harmed.” The carafe followed the silver cup into the corner, shattering into glittering pieces. “I’ve defied my father’s will in many things, but the safety of the border... it would have been legitimate treason.” Aleksander looked up at me, clear-eyed and bitter. “The worst part is that I believe he was right. My duty is to the security of the Empire.”
And so Ivan had reaped the result of it, as would Aleksander and thousands of others. Nothing useful could be said. “Now the Hamraschi are courting Prince Edik,” I said.
“No surprise. Jackals find the weak in any herd.”
Voices murmured from inside Aleksander’s apartments. The Prince jumped up and stepped inside, motioning for me to stay where I was. “Yes, I’m still awake,” he said. “Not likely to be anything else today. Certainly not with all of you standing in here gabbling.”
“Your Highness, messages have arrived.”
“Send them up, and tell Hessio I want a hot bath.”
“Aye, my lord, and something to eat ... ?”
“Something ... yes ... anything ... Enough for two.”
He stepped out again and dropped his voice. “Will you stay? I might need a strong sword arm today. I’m going after the Hamraschi.” It was spoken diffidently ... yet he had asked. He must be truly worried.
But it would be a grave mistake for him to rely on me. “Today, yes. I’ll stay. But I can‘t—”
“After today, one way or the other, I don’t think it will matter. You can turn yourself into a bird again and fly back to your friends.”
To confess that my sword arm was no longer reliable would be no easy matter, and attempting to explain my madness would be worse. I tried to begin, but Aleksander gave me no opening. He thought I was trying to dispute his decision. “My lord, I cannot—”
“The Hamraschi have murdered the Emperor of the Derzhi. There’s no question as to their guilt; Zedeon brought me a Frythian dagger as his funeral gift. Whether or not anyone else believes my accusation, I have to take them down, and I have to do it immediately, before negotiations, before investigations, before the Council of Twenty convenes to crown me ... or someone else ... Emperor. If I do nothing, I’ll be admitting my own guilt or my weakness, which is much the same.”
No wonder he needed a strong sword arm. “Have you the men to do it?”
He shrugged and ran his fingers through his ragged hair. “Old Zedeon likely has more than a token garrison at his Zhagad stronghold. To take him I’ll need at least a thousand warriors. The bulk of my own troops are still in the desert somewhere between here and Suzain—do you begin to see the beauty of their plan? So I’ve had to call upon the other hegeds who have garrisons here in the city. I sent out the command to all of them before I came back from the rites. Shall we go inside and discover who sees fit to support their Emperor-in-waiting?”
It would have been exceedingly convenient if I could have shifted easily into a mouse or a plant or one of the hundred cats that slunk about the royal palace. As it was, I had to face the curious stares of Aleksander’s gentlemen attendants and courtiers as I followed him into the richly furnished apartment. The floor was sand-colored tile, shot through with the deep blue of lapis. Silk cushions and couches of red and blue were positioned throughout the large airy room, with lamps of brass and crystal set on low, round tables of exotic woods inlaid with ebony. Traditional Derzhi sand paintings of exquisite artistry hung on the walls, and silver wind chimes hung beside the open windows. But the fairest decorations were the window prospects themselves. Aleksander’s apartments occupied the highest reaches of the north tower of the palace, where the slightest breeze would find its way under his high ceilings, and between the sitting rooms and bedchambers, he would command views in every direction. One window after another displayed the graceful arches of Zhagad and, beyond them, the purple and gold vastness of the desert. To the north one could see the distant shimmer of snow-caps, the mountains where lay Capharna, the Empire’s summer capital, where, on a winter’s day five years before, Aleksander had bought me for twenty zenars.
“The scribe is on his way, Your Highness,” said a chinless, high-voiced courtier who held a silver tray stacked with small rolls of parchment.
Aleksander, who was allowing a slight, fair-haired slave to remove his red cloak, snapped his head around to me and waggled his eyebrows. “No. I think not.” He waved off the bodyslave, who was attempting to unfasten his shirt. “I’ve engaged a new scribe. I’ve heard he is quite capable, if not particularly refined. We’ll have to induce him to clean himself, or the chamberlains will think he’s a slave and lock him up.” Indeed I was a filthy, stinking mess. “So you agree to the position, whatever your name is?”
I bowed low, shaking my hair to the side of my face where it might help hide my slave mark.
“Give him the messages, and show him where the writing materials are to be found. And pass him flatbread and some of these figs. I can’t bear a servant who looks as though he’ll eat my carpets.”
Before I had broken the first seal, the Prince was naked, reclining on blue silk cushions and eating dates while the fair-haired Hessio, his longtime bodyslave, tended the angry wounds on his arms. Another soft-faced youth washed his face, hands, and feet. The position was so familiar, an echoed memory, that I found myself checking my wrists to make sure no slave rings had been sealed about them while I wasn’t looking.
“So tell me the news, my scribe. Time gives us no indulgence, as a wise man told me quite recently. Malver here is waiting to take the message to his captains—shall we have a thousand warriors or two hundred to destroy a nest of murderers?”
Three unsmiling soldiers stood attentively before the Prince. One of them, a short, wiry man with a scar on his chin, bowed slightly to Aleksander. I could not guess his ancestry—his skin was the color of old leather, and his close-trimmed hair and beard were mottled gray and black. From his lack of a braid, his plain dress unmarked with any heged symbol, and his air of unassuming competence, I judged him a professional soldier—a lowborn man who had risen to a post of responsibility through hard work rather than family. His companions were bigger, typical ruddy-faced Derzhi warriors with full beards, long braids, and sun-darkened shoulders protruding from leather vests marked with the Denischkar falcon. Hovering by the door were a handful of chamberlains and messengers, as much a part of the royal furnishings as were the tables or cushions. And beyond them, standing in the shadows of the great arched doorway, was a tall woman in brilliant green. Her hair was hidden by her filmy veil, but her eyes were dark as desert midnight and riveted on my own. Her mouth formed words I could not hear.
“Have you lost your voice, then?” Aleksander was frowning at me. “Read the replies.”
I started and bent my head to the stiff page.
The first message was terse. Twenty warriors of the Fontezhi garrison are available at Prince Aleksander’s command.
“Twenty!” one of the bearded men bellowed. “The Fontezhi garrison numbers three hundred. My lord—”
“The next, scribe.” Aleksander ate another date and allowed Hessio to begin shaving his chin.
I unrolled the next stiff paper, glancing briefly across the room to the doorway. The woman in green was gone.
The Rhyzka heged will supply a hundred and twenty-five warriors at the Prince ’s pleasure. The house stable master will also be alerted to supply twenty-five extra horses, three armorers, and two surgeons.
“Ah, my loyal Rhyzka. What prince dares offend such an ally?” Aleksander sat up abruptly, causing the fair Hessio to yank the razor-knife away and lose what color he had in his boyish face. All royal bodyslaves were gelded; t
he slave master in Capharna had told me that Hessio was, in fact, almost forty. The Prince grimaced and waved at Hessio to continue. Or perhaps it was to me. The next message was longer.
My lord Aleksander,
I have heard your command to supply a suitable levy of warriors by midday to carry out justice for your most honored and glorious imperial father’s untimely death. Before I commit Gorusch men, I must beg indulgence to appear before you and submit questions which I know my first lord would require be answered before engaging in such a dreadful enterprise. In short, there are disturbing accusations which bear upon the honor and rightness of this cause—
“Read the next.” Aleksander was as red as the cushion under his feet, and Hessio’s delicate hand trembled as he quickly finished his risky enterprise with the razor-knife.
I nodded and broke the next seal. Every response was similar. A token offering, sure to be the dregs of the house legions, stable boys, or unbraided youths. Or an excuse—rampant flux among the garrison or their lamentable absence at this exact time—or specific orders of the heged lord to commit the troops elsewhere on this particular day. For some, as for the excessively traditional Gorusch heged, some question needed to be answered before commitment. Unspoken was the real question—had Aleksander truly murdered his own father as reliable reports had it? Aleksander’s brother-in-law, the young Marag, sent a terse “none,” with no excuse or explanation. A bold lad.