One of the Puppeteer’s rich-clothed attendants shrugged helplessly. “He cannot fight Talshekh, not with the might of his armies gathered like they are. House Davar is too powerful.”
“Bah!” the Puppeteer said, waving his hand. “I need answers, not excuses! How many of them are there?”
“The scouts count over twenty thousand, your excellency,” one of the men offered. “Though his numbers swell daily.”
“Perhaps we can bribe him,” a third man suggested. “Make peace? A treaty?”
“He thinks I assassinated his family, you idiot!” the Puppeteer snapped.
The men in the room glanced at each other nervously. It was commonly held in the city that the Puppeteer had indeed been behind the slaughter of the Davar family, though the thoroughness of that belief could only have been created by Ahven’s rumor-spreaders.
During his weeks in Ahven’s company, Jek had come to realize that Jek himself was not the only efficient man who quietly served the Idiot King. There was a very soft, very exclusive underground in Veden City—an underground that understood that the Puppeteer’s power was fleeting. A group that served Ahven, as Jek did.
“I didn’t kill them!” the Puppeteer insisted to his supporters, who looked unconvinced. Apparently, the Puppeteer had often expressed his dissatisfaction with House Davar.
Jek shook his head. Among a land of heathens, there were many who were nonetheless competent. The Lord Puppeteer was not one of them. The men in this room should have been his most avid supporters. If he had such little ability to persuade them, then . . .
It didn’t really matter. Veden City was doomed. Twenty thousand men camped just outside its walls. The Puppeteer had barely eight thousand at his disposal. That was enough to give the invader pause before attacking the city, but it wouldn’t stop him for long. Talshekh’s numbers were growing every day.
In addition, it appeared that the Lord Puppeteer would receive no aid. Whether by his own incompetence or by Ahven’s secret maneuverings, he had been left without allies. Once news of the Davar invasion had arrived, assumedly firm allegiances had suddenly withdrawn. Troops had failed to rally to the capital, and support had evaporated. While House Vedenel supposedly controlled a third of the country of Jah Keved, news of Talshekh’s invasion had isolated the House to a single city. Landlocked, with mountains at its back, there would be no escaping the trap. The Puppeteer had sat, firm in his belief that support would arrive, until it had been too late.
This man was doomed. That was not a question. The true puzzle was, why had Ahven instigated it? The second thing the invading Talshekh would do—right after killing the Puppeteer—would be to execute Ahven. Vedens were not like the Aleths to the north—there would be no subtlety in this seizure. Talshekh was marching on the capital. He would see himself named king. Ahven would die with the man he had trapped.
“You!” the Puppeteer said, pointing at Jek. “Shin! What of those men you promised me?”
“They come,” Jek lied, speaking a broken dialect of Veden. “My entire clan.”
The Puppeteer closed his eyes, exhaling in relief. Even those who had never seen a Shin fight knew that their abilities could not be matched by anything in Kanar.
“When will they arrive?” the Puppeteer asked.
“Soon,” Jek said.
“You promised five thousand,” the Puppeteer said eagerly. “Five thousand Shin swords.”
“Yes,” Jek said. “My people, fine craftsmen.”
The Puppeteer froze. “Fine . . . craftsmen?”
“Yes,” Jek said. “They make swords. Bring swords to his Excellency. His Excellency’s soldiers, well weaponed.”
The Puppeteer’s eyes bulged. “Craftsmen!” he yelled. “You bring me five thousand craftsmen!”
“No,” Jek said, cocking his head. “Five thousand swords. His Excellency asked for swords. We bring, and sell swords.”
“Sell . . .” the Puppeteer looked dazed. Then, his rage returned. “Out!” he screamed, pointing.
Jek adopted a look of confusion and scurried from the room in compliance.
Ahven was not in his rooms. Jek did not have to search long to find him, however. The guards directed him to the Veden City walls, where the Idiot King stood looking out over the Davar army. The troops were scattered across the bare stones, the colors of their tents marking the presence of tensets of lesser houses. Davar had gained allies quickly. In this heathen land, loyalty often meant only as much as the strength of one’s armies.
The invaders had brought with them a tenset of the large towers the Kanarans used in battle, but they would probably not be needed. City walls were almost a formality in this land—instead of providing fortifications, they often simply hampered one’s Shardbearers. With a well-executed strike against the city gate, Talshekh’s own Shardbearers would quickly slice their way through the wood. Even without Blades, the heathens’ profane use of the sacred arts could change the gate—or even the walls—into water or air to allow passage. In Kanar, sieges did not last very long.
“You have returned early,” Ahven noted as Jek approached. The king was alone; his guards stood a short distance away, well out of earshot. Jek had determined that some of them knew of their king’s charade, but others obviously did not. For a man whose manipulations were so varied, Ahven did an amazing job of keeping his secrets.
“I was forced to reveal that I was bringing no troops,” Jek said. “And the Puppeteer threw me out.”
Ahven frowned. “You played your hand early.”
Jek shrugged. “There is no further reason to watch the man. He is a fool, and his fate is inevitable.”
Ahven smiled. “You acted impetuously,” he said. “Perhaps my steward is doomed, perhaps he is not. After all, you think that I am doomed as well.”
Jek froze. How had he . . .
Ahven’s smile deepened. “Tell me of the meeting,” he said, watching Jek’s face carefully.
“The Puppeteer was looking for options,” he said. “He kept asking members of the group if they could help, even though they had already said they could not. One of the members often pointed out how many troops Talshekh had.”
“Fourth Lord Dinvah Shenchal,” Ahven said quietly. “He favors ‘The Fifth Refrain of the Returns’ and ‘The Song of Souls,’ among others. Simple melodies, with trite rhymes.”
“Lord Zalachan was there,” Jek continued—he was accustomed to Ahven’s strange interruptions. “He didn’t speak much. He looked more troubled than the others, but not as nervous.”
“‘The Onyxseer’s Child,’” Ahven whispered. “And ‘The Ballad of the Sixth Return.’ Straightforward songs that tell stories and always explain their morals.”
“Lord Naden was unwilling to be firm about his contacts in Reinar,” Jek explained. “He said that they were frightened to move against Talshekh.”
“‘The Whisper of Spring,’ ‘The Words of Nale Elin,’ and ‘Kanar’s Last Dream,’” Ahven said. “Careful songs, that sound sweet to the ear, hiding their complexity. Naden lies. Lord Reinar will not sit and hide—he gathers his own forces. He will not come to our aid. Every day Talshekh sits in siege of this city is another day Lord Reinar has to prepare.”
Jek frowned. Weeks spent with Ahven had not given Jek the insight he wished. He had made many assumptions about the Idiot King, but they had slowly betrayed themselves. He had thought that the man was a simple thug. Now, Jek was no longer certain. In truth, he was beginning to wonder at Ahven’s sanity. When Jek had returned from the meeting with the Puppeteer, he had found Ahven’s room empty. There had been two more yellow songbirds on the floor, their necks crushed.
“Tell me, Jeksonsonvallano,” Ahven asked with a soft voice. “What songs do you prefer? If there were a minstrel here now, what would you have her sing?”
For some reason, Jek felt a chill. “I don’t feel like listening to music at the moment,” he said.
“Assume you did,” Ahven said. “What songs have you reques
ted in the past? What songs do you hear that give you pause?”
His bondage would not let him lie. “You will not know them. My favorite is called ‘The Kalanatanan.’”
“Ah,” Ahven said. “A ballad that tells a story indeed. A song of loyalty, and of a warrior who dies for his clan.”
Jek shivered. “Yes,” he replied.
Ahven nodded, then turned back toward the army. They had arrayed themselves carefully against the slight shelter of the sloping land. Veden City was unusual in that it wasn’t on a Lait—it was exposed to the full fury of the storms, when they came. The day was hot, the air dry in Jek’s throat. He had been in Kanar long enough to know that the storms would be very infrequent this time of year. When they did come, their fury would be such that it could be dangerous to be outdoors.
“There,” Ahven said, nodding toward the city gates. “It has happened.”
Jek peered down, looking out over the camp. No force was approaching, however, and he looked back with confusion. Then he saw it. The disturbance was not on the outside, but on the inside. A man on horseback ordered the gate opened—he carried a white flag and a spear.
“The Puppeteer would have given no order for parlay,” Jek said.
“He didn’t give the order.”
Looking closer, Jek saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There was an object sticking from the end of the messenger’s spear. A head.
“Come,” Ahven ordered. “We must work quickly.”
Sitting on his throne in the glory of the Veden palace, Ahven looked like a king. Even as an impotent king, Ahven had more wealth than any Shin clanleader. Here, in this heathen land, lords claimed to serve their people, but their expenditures and wastefulness proved otherwise.
Ahven was resplendent with jewelry and gemstones, most notably diamonds, the symbol of Vedenar. Jewels had been sewn into his cloak and clothing, and his fingers glittered with rings. Watching him, it would have been impossible to know the way in which the rest of the nation regarded their king.
Until he opened his mouth. “We welcome you to Veden City.” The king’s voice betrayed its characteristic muddled drawl, the result of a childhood spent with waning hearing, then an adulthood spent completely deaf. On top of it, Ahven added a slight hesitance . . . a stumbling of words. Not too overt—even an idiot could be trained in what to say—but it was enough. Even to one who knew the king’s secret, this man sounded like a half-wit.
Third Lord Talshekh was a burly man. He wore little jewelry—the massive Shardblade in his hand was ornamentation enough. It was a thick, curved weapon, and matched his heavyset legs and build. He seemed less like a man and more like a chull in Shardplate.
“You have freed us,” Ahven said. He spoke the words that were passing like a wave through the city—words encouraged by the group of lords Jek had left behind with the Puppeteer, the men who had killed their supposed leader and delivered his head to the invader. They hailed Talshekh not as a conqueror, but as a liberator—a man who had come to cleanse the corruption from the capital. It was claimed that the entire city had been beneath the thumb of the Lord Puppeteer, and that he had practically kept the other nobility in bondage.
Talshekh stood for a moment, his eyes unreadable. His trusted Shardbearers stood behind him, arrayed as they had been as they marched through the broad doors.
“You have pleased the crown,” Ahven said.
Talshekh stood for a moment longer, then turned and strode from the throne room—leaving Ahven alive.
Jek closed his eyes, pulling back into the pillared shadows of the throne room’s far corner. If Talshekh had killed the Idiot King, then Jek would have had an opportunity to plea for his Bondstone. Another chance—perhaps—to be set free.
That was not going to happen. Jek still had a master. He opened his eyes, leaving the shadows and following Ahven into the dressing chamber at the side of the throne room. Ahven sat patiently, waiting as attendants removed his royal jewelry. It was several minutes until they were alone and could speak freely, and Jek spent the entire time wondering.
“You think I should be dead,” Ahven said with amusement as the final attendant left.
“You should be,” Jek said.
Ahven shook his head. “You don’t understand Lord Talshekh Davar,” he said. “He didn’t just want revenge. He wants much more. Do you realize that no one man has ever conquered all of Kanar?”
“Yes,” Jek said.
“They tell stories of those who have tried. Nev Windvoice, Sadees the Sunmaker . . . even Jarnah, who is only twenty years dead. Talshekh likes those stories. He likes them very much.”
“If he wants to conquer the eastern peninsulas,” Jek said, “he’ll first need to be king of his own nation. He should have taken your head, and your title.”
Ahven shook his head. “Lord Reinar is rising to arms in the south,” he said.
“Talshekh has more troops,” Jek responded. “And more Shardblades. He will defeat Reinar.”
“Ah, but which would he rather be?” Ahven said. “The conquering tyrant, or the dutiful subject, putting down a rebellion? Vedenel gave itself to him, and its king welcomed him. He knows he can take the throne any time he wishes. If he leaves me, he can march south with the legitimacy of royal support. He will gain the allegiance of the more traditional lords—those who would have resisted him as a conqueror, but will welcome him as the liberator of Veden City. He can put down Reinar, then have me quietly executed. He becomes king not by the sword, but by consent of a loyal—and loving—people.”
Jek paused in thought.
“If you want to conquer the world,” Ahven said, “you need more than armies. You need loyalty. You need both love and fear. You need to be seen as more than a man—you need to be a force, like the winds themselves. Men do not resist divinity. If every land you leave behind rises against your rule, then you will need to spend all your time squashing rebellions rather than conquering new land.”
“He will still come for you,” Jek challenged. “Even if what you say is true, Talshekh will need to be king. You will have to die.”
Ahven smiled. “I have another list for you,” he said. “These men need to be dead before Talshekh returns. You won’t have much time—he will gain momentum as he marches south, especially when word of what happened here arrives. Vedens do not like to fight their kinsmen. Reinar will be forced to surrender, or to fight in a single battle—the longer he draws it out, the more of his supporters will join with Talshekh. The war could be over within a month’s time, especially if you do your job quickly.”
Jek nodded, and memorized the names as Ahven spoke them.
chapter 21
Jasnah 5
“Lady Denrah will support you,” Shinri said as she pulled the brush through Jasnah’s hair. “She knows you are the reason Dalenar gave her husband leave to recruit in Pebble’s Perch.”
Jasnah nodded—that particular negotiation had required a great deal of persuasion on her part. Though Dalenar was a very noble man, he was still a lord—and was loath to lose citizens to another city, even one within the same kingdom.
“I think you have allies in the Nivesh family as well,” Shinri continued.
“They’ll need more convincing,” Jasnah said. “Lady Evash is intimidated by Nanavah’s posturing. She’ll need more assurances before she’ll move on her dislike of the queen. Perhaps if I persuade Elhokar to promote her cousin . . . the boy did very well in the Prallah war. His heavy infantry squad certainly did its share of damage.”
Shinri nodded, continuing to brush. “It’s working, my lady. The women thought your return would be as a spring storm—come and gone almost without notice. Everyone assumed you would be married and gone without ever re-entering court life.”
“That is probably what Nanavah promised them,” Jasnah said, looking into the mirror as Shinri brushed.
“Anyway,” Shinri continued, “now they’re worried that you’ll regain your old influence, and that Lady Nanava
h isn’t as invincible as they assumed. I think you’ll find some of your allies will begin returning.”
Jasnah nodded to herself. It had taken continued effort during the last month, but she was determined not to let the royal court ignore her. She used what resources she had—the money from Elhokar’s stipend, her influence with both king and Parshen, reminders of her former power—to forge a new place for herself at court. It was going slowly, but it was working.
As she brushed, Shinri idly pulled the hair away from Jasnah’s neck. It was at that moment that the girl’s gem-studded bracelet touched Jasnah’s skin.
Jasnah gasped as the room detonated with sound. Two separate gemstones on the bracelet, jezinite and sapphire, touched at the same time, and the power of their notes assaulted her mind like screams. Each one pulled at her, a demanding set of vibrations that shook her soul, fighting with one another for her attention.
Shinri’s arm passed, the gemstones breaking contact, and all was silent again.
“My lady?” Shinri asked with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Jasnah said, shivering slightly, struggling to banish the echoes within. “Please, take off your bracelet when you brush, Shinri. It caught a piece of my hair and yanked it.”
“Oh!” Shinri gasped. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
“It’s all right,” Jasnah said, composing herself as the gemstones’ cries faded in her mind.
There was a knock at the door, and Shinri went to answer it. It was probably Kemnar—Jasnah had sent him to Peacehome Monastery to deliver a message for her.
Shinri returned a moment later, her face troubled. “My lady,” she said, “you have a visitor.”
Jasnah frowned. It wasn’t that late—the sun had barely set, and many people would still be awake—but she had retired early to compose letters to the budding nobility in the new Aleth state of Pralir. She had instructed Kemnar to set up her audience with Ralmakha for the next day. Knowing the monk, he had probably come immediately just to inconvenience her.
“Tell Brother Ralmakha to wait,” Jasnah said, rising.
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