The High King's Vengeance

by Steven Poore

  He fumbled at his waist for a moment and then lifted a wineskin. Even in the dark Cassia could see the skin was mostly empty. He swigged from it and then held it out to her. “Drink. Drink to the gods. What use they were. They never answered my prayers. But you did.”

  She did not take the wineskin. Attis held it out a while longer and then let it drop back into his lap.

  “You don’t like me much, do you girl?”

  From his tone he did not seem to expect an answer.

  “Your father’s doing. And my own fault too. If I’d been younger, if I’d had an ounce of courage in my bones to stand up to that ruthless old bastard and deny him to his face before he killed her . . .”

  Cassia blinked. “My father? He never killed anyone.” But she wasn’t as sure of that as she ought to be.

  Attis shook his head. “No, not him. Though he might as well have done, for what little he cared. No – Baum. He killed her.”

  Cassia was lost now. “Killed who?”

  “Aliciana.” Attis lifted his head and shouted into the night. “Aliciana! There – I defy you at last! She’s mine again! You can’t take her from me – you never took her from me! She’s here – she lives on!” He thumped his fist against his chest, glared into the sky once more, and then slumped back down. “Here. In here. I can say her name again after all these years. What a coward I am, Cassia, that I let him take her name from me.”

  She was glad she had kept some distance between them. The guards had paid little heed to his shouts, though one or two paused in their tasks before continuing. The greater danger was to the North, not amongst them, not a drunken old man. Unless Attis meant to say that he too had survived the destruction of Caenthell.

  That he too was a warlock and an instrument of the gods.

  “Baum did not kill Aliciana,” she said carefully. “He loved her – just as Malessar did. And Jedrell. That was why Caenthell was destroyed. That’s what Malessar told me.”

  Attis continued to shake his head. “Malessar? Jedrell? Oh no, Cassia, not that Aliciana. Not her. That was a story, wasn’t it? A story that I believed never happened. But it was funny, I thought – funny that Baum had one and I had the other. Mine was real.”

  Cassia frowned. Whatever Attis was trying to tell her, it did not make sense.

  Attis held up the wineskin again. “Please, drink with me,” he said. “Drink to Aliciana – my princess. My little girl.”

  He skated across the surface of the story like a lamb upon ice. Cassia struggled to piece together the fractured sentences between his tears and his sudden rages against the sheer inhumanity of the gods who had turned away from him for so long. This was not Attis the moneylender who had tied Keskor and the surrounding villages to the strings of his purse, the man to whom even Rann Almoul deferred, whose favour could make or destroy a man’s life. This was the old man who had beckoned to her from behind the gate of Almoul’s house, afraid to be overheard.

  I had a daughter too. Once.

  In all this time Cassia had not thought about that revelation, but now she realised it was a knothole in the shutter that kept Attis’s life from view. He had always protected his privacy with such intensity that it seemed folk would not even walk in front of his house lest they incur his displeasure. He never received guests at his doors. His servants were as closed-mouthed as any shieldman in Cassia’s service. Some believed he’d once had a wife, but did she still live? Was she shut up in one of the rooms of his dark house? Had he abandoned her in favour of his business?

  Some folk in other towns, knowing his reputation, joked that he made love only to his money, and that he counted each coin as a child and doted upon it accordingly. The men of Keskor made no such jokes. Attis would have destroyed them if he had heard them.

  Only one man ever dared jest at the moneylender’s expense. Norrow, of course. As a man with no roots in the town, no house, no real possessions, he had nothing to lose. And perhaps something to gain, though it had never been clear what. He laced some of his tales with innuendo and jokes that bordered upon slander, and his daring drew crowds to him, even if they sucked in their breath and tittered nervously, rather than laughing out loud. He and Attis danced around each other, whenever Norrow came into town. There were dark looks, arguments and threats, but nothing ever came of them. Not that Cassia saw. If Norrow appeared on any given morning with bruises or a split lip, it was nothing to be commented on. Not by her. Nothing more than was usual.

  It was clear there was bad blood between them. Cassia steered clear of the trouble as much as she could. That should have been easy enough: Keskor’s leading citizens were hardly likely to bother with the skinny apprentice of an unlikeable storyteller. But Attis appeared at the corner of her sight more often than she expected. It was odd – no, more than that, it scared her. As little as she really liked her father, she liked even less the idea that Attis would try to get to him through her.

  And then he tried to buy her.

  And then, to finish the evening, he warned her to be careful. To be safe.

  I had a daughter too. Once.

  Her name was Aliciana. Back then, when she was born, he had thought her more beautiful than any princess, and so he named her after the last Queen of the North. Both he and his wife doted upon her, and she had the run of the camp – for she had come while Attis was on campaign with the legions, and his family followed in the train.

  “She was our mascot, far more than any standard,” Attis said. “She brought such light to us, such joy. Everything I did was for her. All of the money, the business I intended – it was all to be sure she would never want for anything. She was the future of the North.”

  That desire fuelled his part in the campaign in Berdella, where he and Baum, along with the rest of Guhl’s Company, secured the riches that belonged to Gyre Carnus. Attis argued for a larger share, and to his surprise Baum agreed quickly. In return, he said, he would ask nothing for now. But in the future, he would come to Attis for a favour. The North could only benefit by it.

  Attis hesitated, but his will to see his family provided for, to live in a North that was not subservient to the leeches of Hellea, prevailed. He sealed the agreement in blood, as Baum asked. The dragon’s bargain, his wife would have called it, had he even told her of it then.

  As time passed, he thought little of it. Retired from the legions, he prospered in Keskor. His partnership with Rann Almoul effectively divided the town between them, regardless of the Factor’s presence. The bloody Helleans could not stand him, of course. They looked down on him, treated him as an upstart and a barely-civilised barbarian, despite the fact that this land had been an empire long before the city states of the plains banded together for protection. That he had served their legions faithfully was a fact both quickly and easily forgotten by the young, braying sons of Hellea. They saw only a provincial trader who had the temerity to think he could be their equal.

  Attis brushed off the jibes and focused upon his business. Administrators came and went, each as unenlightened as the last. As much as he wanted to prove them wrong, to bring the North to prominence once more and perhaps even force the bastards to bow to his commands, he knew Baum would never return to make good his promises. Or to ask Attis to make good his own.

  “But I was wrong,” he said, his voice so soft now Cassia had to strain to hear the words. “He came back, and he destroyed me.”

  He was silent for a moment, and she thought he might have fallen asleep, lulled by the wine. But when she uncrossed her legs and shifted her weight to stand, he lifted his head again.

  “He came, and we welcomed him, despite the late hour. Feasted him as a captain deserved. Gave him a bed for the night. Aliciana sang for him – old campaign songs and such, that brought back memories and made us both laugh.”

  By the end of the evening, with an excellent wine broached, a vague sense of unease nagged at Attis’s mind. The more he examined it, the less comfortable he felt. Baum had not said anything that could caus
e offence – quite the opposite, in fact. He had been affable, gossiping about affairs in Hellea and in other towns nearby, and if he had appeared unusually focused at moments during the evening then Attis knew that was his way; he had always been like that. Baum had remarked on the quality of the meal, and complimented Aliciana’s singing, even though some of the songs veered close to the sort that should not be sung before officers.

  He lay awake, listening to the silence of the house. Eventually he could lie still no longer. He took great care not to disturb his wife as he fished for the thick woollen robe he preferred to wear in the comfort of his home. The halls were darkened, and as he made his way quietly to the room that served as the hub of his business he thought he felt a weight settle onto his shoulders.

  The fire should have been banked, left to smoulder safely until morning. Instead it burned cheerfully. A figure knelt before it, feeding it and bringing light into the room. No, perhaps cheerfully was the wrong word. There was nothing cheering about this scene. Attis looked at his captain, who had taken the moneylender’s own chair. Baum was dressed for travel once more, and all of the pleasantry had gone from his smile. In the firelight he looked much older, Attis thought. It was . . . it was the sort of thing that would make a man hesitate before placing a bet on the man’s age. Just as the gods were said to appear in some of the more fantastical stories he had heard around the campfires.

  This is my office, Attis said quietly. He could not bring the requisite tone of authority into his voice, however.

  Where better to do business? Baum said. He was perfectly at ease. You made a promise, back in Berdella.I have come to collect.It is time.

  But the terms were never agreed, Attis argued. You never said . . .

  I say now.

  The dragon’s bargain. The trap of all desperate men. And Baum’s features were bronzed in the firelight; he looked every inch a dragon from the Age of Talons. In a corner of his mind Attis wondered how quickly he could reach his old sword, hooked onto a wall these past years, well out of the reach of inquisitive youngsters. He wondered if he might even manage to unsheathe it before Baum drove his own blade through his back.

  Then what?

  The captain smiled. Attis looked back uncomprehendingly, and then turned to the figure who knelt by the fire. Aliciana, his daughter, wrapped against the night in a shawl he had bought for her just last week in the town’s market. Her face was pale, as though painted from one of the frescos that lined the room.

  No. You cannot.

  I can. I will. Pyraete commands it. You cannot defy your god, Attis.

  Attis looked into the man’s eyes and saw the hard core of determination there. And more too; some force that pushed out towards him, attacking his own resolve. He took an involuntary step back. That same force had cowed his Aliciana too. She was terrified – broken.

  He clenched his fists in useless anger. What have you said? What have you told her?

  This room has a good view. Baum nodded to the shutters. But you cannot see past the frame that encloses it. Not if you stay inside your house, with the doors bolted, with your fires lit, with your servants ducking their heads before you . . . The world is much larger than you can imagine.

  I don’t understand.

  Of course you don’t. Perhaps you never will. But then, perhaps you might.

  Attis rallied the last of his bravado. He could not bring himself to look down again at his daughter again, in case his courage deserted him entirely. Then try me. Explain yourself.

  Baum leaned forward. You know my aim. To throw Hellea from the mountains. The North will rise again.

  Not in ten thousand years. Attis shook his head. The Empire is bringing more trade into the North, and people know it. Even I know it. Face it, captain, revolution is for the young.

  The smile Baum gave him was dangerously thin. I was never young, Attis. We digress. I am close to my goals. Perhaps only two steps from success.

  And my daughter . . . ?

  The next step. You should be proud, Attis. Your blood will rule the North, with Pyraete’s grace.

  He asked the question despite himself. How?

  The answer appalled him. But still he found himself on his knees, his head bowed beneath Baum’s sword and his hands cut to allow blood to soak into the stone floor, as he swore the oaths that Baum drew from him. Loyalty to Pyraete and the High King. To Caenthell and the North. Oaths of obedience and silence. The fruits of the dragon’s bargain.

  And when morning came and his wife discovered him alone in the room, staring blankly into the ashes of the stone-cold hearth, he realised that he did not know how to tell her what had happened.

  “She left. This was not her home, she said, and I was not her husband, but Aliciana was her daughter, and she would not let this evil go unpunished. She took my sword and left, and I never heard tell of her again.”

  Attis was quiet for a moment, and Cassia was glad of the respite from this terrible history. The moneylender’s greed had cost him his entire family, it seemed, and he had borne the guilt alone for all this time. But carrying that burden did not absolve him from it, she reminded herself quickly. He could have fought back, could have broken his bargain with Baum . . .

  But Attis had staked his reputation on always being a man of his word. If he had broken his promise, then perhaps that would have eaten away at his soul until he was just as broken as he appeared now. Baum had been utterly ruthless in pursuit of his quest. He had destroyed Vescar’s patrol with sorcery, so effortlessly that it scared her even now, and she imagined that he must have dealt with Attis’s wife in much the same way. What on earth had Hetch been thinking of, to cajole his brother into such a stupid mission?

  Unless . . . Pieces of the puzzle shifted. Perhaps it had not been Hetch at all. Perhaps Vescar had been persuaded by a more authoritative figure.

  I had a daughter too. Once.

  There was more to it yet, she realised. It was another hole in the ground before her, the edges crumbling away beneath her feet as she struggled to escape. Just as in her dreams, there was a beast hidden at the bottom of this dark pit.

  “Tell me the end,” she said, though she did not want to hear it.

  “Years passed,” Attis said after another long pause. “I counted every day. People asked questions, at first. But when I refused them credit, or I called in my notes, they soon stopped asking. They learned. I guarded my privacy well. I laid stones in tribute, for I knew in my heart that they were both dead to me forever. Rann helped: he talked to me, kept my head focused on problems that he wanted solved. It was all done with selfish aims, of course. But without the distraction he offered, I’m not certain I would have had enough heart to live on.”

  Even the Factor and his staff came to him for advice now. He was closer to ruling the North than he could ever have been if he’d been born a Hellean. How ironic it all was.

  And one day, passing through the town’s market – he would never remember for what purpose – he saw the storyteller beginning his work. A new arrival in Keskor, this man’s intensity and passion felt so familiar that Attis paused in shock, peering to make sure this was not Baum in some other guise. The storyteller marshalled his audience, not with the subtlety of a shepherd, but with the fire of a predator. He flayed emotion from his tale, and the hat at his feet filled with coins afterwards. Attis had missed the beginning of his recital, but still he was impressed. Such a talent was rare in the North these days.

  He pushed through the dispersing crowds to introduce himself and ask the man’s name. The storyteller looked well-acquainted with wines and ales, if the state of his clothing and skin were any guide, but Attis thought to steer him into a tavern and see if the man was as well-spoken as he was talented. The presence of a good storyteller might make all the difference in some negotiations.

  Just as he approached the man he saw the child playing in the dirt by the nearby wall, where the storyteller’s mule was tethered. A girl, dressed in loose rags that might once
have been a woman’s dress. Dark curls hung lank around her shoulders, and she did not seem to mind the fact that she sat on befouled ground. Her gaze followed the storyteller’s movements exactly, with a self-possession no infant should have.

  That gaze flicked up to examine Attis as he walked towards her. His heart leaped and fell at the same moment. He knew those eyes. That mouth.

  He turned upon the storyteller before the man had a chance to speak. Where is she?

  Where’s who?

  Aliciana, he spat into the man’s face. My daughter.Where in all the hells is she?

  The name had shocked the man, but he recovered quickly. His expression passed through disbelief and into calculated defiance before Attis could question the wisdom of confronting him.

  Business first. Norrow smiled at Attis. I have bills to settle.

  Anger flared in Cassia’s heart. Anger at her father, at Baum, at Attis himself. Anger at the mother she had never known, who had allowed herself to be used in the mad captain’s schemes. Anger at herself, for not having seen the truth far sooner than this. So much fury flooded her limbs that she felt completely paralysed. She wanted to shout, cry and curse, yet she could do none of those things. Not even with the endless, pummelling beating of the war drums of the North hard at her temples, sending white flashes of pain through her head and down her spine.

  “All these years, I wanted to say something. Anything. But I swore that oath . . . with my blood . . .” Attis shook his head. “I could say nothing. Not even to Rann.”

  It all made sense. Cassia wished it did not, but even the most powerful sorcery could never make it so. The enmity between Attis and her father, so bitter, yet so long unexplained. Norrow’s own foul temper and the black moods that took him on occasion to the edge of violence.

  “He must have loved her,” she said quietly. Had Norrow said once that she took too much after her mother? Was that why he had kept her with him? Or had it all been a part of Baum’s planning?