The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  “I’ll have to destroy it,” Tyentso said. She surprised me by smiling, the first time I recalled her doing so. “I’ve never killed a kraken before.”

  “Aren’t they immune to magic? Isn’t that what all the stories say?”

  Tyentso smiled at me with grim, dark humor. “So is a witchhunter, but I learned a long time ago that everyone needs to breathe air or walk on land or swim in water. Those elements are mine. Let’s see how our kraken likes acid.” She pushed her sleeves up her arms.

  “No,” Khaemezra said. “You cannot.”

  “Oh, I very much can.” Tyentso raised her hands.

  “You should not then. You would be making a horrible mistake.”

  Tyentso sneered. “If you have a better plan to deal with this bitch, by all means share.”

  Khaemezra sighed with exasperation. “The wizard who did this was ignorant as to which ship we used to leave port. He didn’t summon a single Daughter of Laaka: he summoned one for every ship that left Kishna-Farriga. He knows I can destroy a kraken. He is counting on this very thing. Now he sits like a bloated spider, linked to each monster by a thin line of magic, waiting for the right thread to snap—for the kraken who does not survive her hunt. He knows that on the other side of that thread, he will find his prey. He will find us.”

  Tyentso stared at Khaemezra.

  Juval scowled. “I don’t understand, over a dozen ships left port—”

  “And he summoned a dozen kraken, one for each,” Khaemezra said.

  Tyentso shook her head. “Tya bless me. Relos Var. There’s no other wizard it could be.”

  “You know him?” I asked, surprised.

  “Oh, of course. He used to come visit my late husband for a cup of tea and a nice human sacrifice. We were terribly important people, after all.” Tyentso raised her hand in a showy, sarcastic wave. Then her voice lowered to a throaty growl. “He’s only the most powerful wizard in the whole world, inches from being a god. If all he’s waiting on is our location before he strikes, then she’s damn well right—we don’t dare destroy that monster.”

  I turned to Khaemezra. “But he’d still have to deal with you. He obviously doesn’t think he can take you. You stared him down. He’s scared of you.”

  Tyentso stopped moving. Hell, she might have stopped breathing. She looked at Khaemezra as if she were a rearing cobra. “You—”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Teraeth said. “The kraken’s on the chase again.” The Manol vané was keeping one eye on the Captain and another on our monstrous pursuer.

  “You’re good,” Tyentso told Mother. “I can’t even tell you’re a wizard.”

  Khaemezra’s smile was maternal. “I’ve had years of practice, my child.”

  “Help me,” Tyentso pleaded. “We could do this together.”

  “I can’t,” Khaemezra said. “There are rules, and consequences. If I, one of the people who made those rules, break them because they are inconvenient I would win this battle and lose the war. I do not wish to return to the chaos of the old times before the Concord.* Do you understand, child?”

  “No. No, I don’t. There’s a sea monster gaining on the ship,” I said. “Anybody remember the sea monster? Hard to kill, gigantic, lots of arms? Hungry?”

  Khaemezra looked angry. “Damn it, child, I cannot do anything. If I kill that beast, Relos Var will be on us in minutes. And he will not arrive alone. He will have an army of shadow and darkness with him—demons of the cold, frozen Void. In saving you from that, we would lose everything. At least if you are killed by the kraken, you keep your soul and you can be Returned . . .”

  I felt faint. Trapped in the hands of a demon for all time—

  No, anything but that.

  Even death, rather than that.

  “Gods below, you are not talking about letting that monster tear up my ship?” Juval said, screaming even though his voice never rose above speaking level.

  “We could go north,” Teraeth said. “Steer the ship north.”

  “Are you insane?” Juval said. “There’s a reason every ship that sails these lanes takes the long way around Zherias. You try to take a shortcut through the Straits and you’ll hit the Maw.”

  “There’s a safe passage through the Maw,” Teraeth replied. “I know it.”

  “Child,” Khaemezra snapped.

  “Whale puke,” Juval said. “I’m Zheriaso and I can’t sail the Maw. No man can.”

  Teraeth ignored him and turned his attention to Tyentso. “There is a safe passage through the Maw, but I have to steer. Your people must obey my orders without question or hesitation. They call you a witch, but what you just did smacks of something else. Formal training or self-taught?”

  “A little of both,” Tyentso admitted. “I had excellent private tutors.” She looked back over her shoulder at the waves. “I can turn the currents against her, the winds in our favor. It should get us to the Straits before she can catch up to us. She won’t dare enter the Maw itself.” She stopped and looked back at Juval.

  “I was wondering when someone would remember whose bloody ship this is,” the Captain growled. “Are you all insane?”

  “Or, we could stay here and be ripped apart,” I said with a smile. “Completely your call, Juvs.”

  He stared at me, his eyes widening with recognition. “I know that voice. You brat. What are you doing back on my ship?”

  “Enjoying your fine hospitality, of course.” I grinned at him. “Trust me when I say you’ve come out of this better than you would’ve if we hadn’t come back on board. Then Tyentso would’ve killed the Daughter and you’d be facing Relos Var all alone. Oh, and not even able to say you don’t know who I am, when he started asking the fun questions.”

  “Captain—” Teraeth said. More than a small trace of urgency strained his voice.

  Juval scowled. “Fine. North.”

  14: BEDTIME STORIES

  (Talon’s story)

  When Ola looked through the green beaded curtain into her bathing room, she found Kihrin stripped of his torn, stained clothes and lounging in her special copper tub. Lantern light flared off motes of dust and sparkled on the bathwater, which soap, fragrant oils, and blood had colored milky pink. Kihrin had scrubbed his bronze skin to a bright red, pressing so hard with the sea sponge he had scratched himself in places. His neck was ruddier than the rest of him, contrasting with the blue tsali stone.

  Her baby boy was talking with the new dancer. To Ola’s surprise, the girl was still dressed. She hadn’t helped with the bath at all, which Ola thought strange, given how Kihrin had been mooning after her.

  Ola scowled, her thoughts troubled by dark memories of an ill-spent youth. She pushed the expression from her face, straightened her shoulders, and inhaled. Ola entered with all the flamboyance of a Revelertrained circus performer. “Ah! Yes! Here is a feast for my poor darling boy.”

  Ola gathered a small folding table, which she set up next to the tub.

  Kihrin laughed. “Don’t you think that’s too much food?”

  The whorehouse madam smiled. “I brought a little of all the day’s specials from the kitchen.” She waved her hand over the tray of food like a waiter presenting the meal. “We have hot peppered goat with strips of fresh voracress, mutton with leado sauce wrapped and grilled in the traditional banana leaf, nakari marinated yellow fish with mango, fried bezevo root fingers, coconut rice, heart of palm, and pieces of bitter melon with chocolate.” Then, as if she’d forgotten, she added, “And some of my Kirpis grape wine. It will relax you.”

  Morea gave Ola a startled look, so the whorehouse madam added, “I know, I know. I mostly save it for rituals,* but I’ve always liked grape wines more than the local rice or coconut wines when I’m trying to relax.”

  Kihrin lay back against the tub. The window light reflecting in his eyes danced and skipped. “I don’t eat this good on my naming day, Ola.”

  She chuckled. “You might if you ran into demons more often. You should try the
yellow fish. That’s nakari powder from Valasi’s, not from Irando.” Ola cast a knowing glance at Morea, and the girl blushed and looked away. Everyone knew nakari powder was made from aphrodisiacs.* That was the whole reason a place like the Shattered Veil Club served it.

  Ola teased the girl for Kihrin’s benefit but he never so much as glanced at Morea when Ola mentioned Valasi’s. She frowned. Surdyeh had been upset, but for the first time Ola wondered just how bad it had been out there.

  Kihrin picked up the goblet from the tray, paused with it at his lips, and then lowered it. He reached for the fried bezevo fingers, long deepfried wedges of sweet root, and leaned back against the copper rim again. “Tell me about the day you found me, Ola.”

  Ola blinked. Of all the . . . why did he want to hear that story? Why did he want to hear that story now? She flicked her fingers at him and snorted. “You know this story.”

  The boy grinned as he ate. “Morea hasn’t heard it yet.”

  “You want me to tell tales? At a time like this?”

  Kihrin set his goblet on the floor, on the opposite side of the tub from Ola. He cast a meaningful glance in Morea’s direction. “You always used to say that times like this are the best times to tell stories. Good luck, remember?”

  The look told Ola everything. She knew Kihrin liked the girl, but she had no idea he liked her that much. And yet, here he was, obviously enchanted, for the first time in his life holding back. A girl like Morea had probably never known a man who gave her any consideration or courted her feelings. He was trying to impress the girl, and so, he was letting her set the pace. Her smile for her adopted son was warm and sentimental.

  “She hasn’t heard it yet,” Ola repeated in a teasing mock. “She don’t need to hear it, either.” Ola looked up at Morea, whose eyes were uncertain and clouded. “Well, child? Do you need to hear a story while you give him a bath? And why the hell aren’t you bathing him, anyhow?”

  “Because I told her not to,” Kihrin said, and gestured to the plate of food. “Morea, this is too much for me. Eat something.”

  “Bright-Eyes . . .”

  “Go on, Ola, give us a story. Tell me about my mother.” He paused. “I suppose I could tell it . . .”

  “You’d never tell it right. You weren’t there.”

  “I was there,” Kihrin corrected. “I may not remember it, but I was most definitely there.”

  “You are an uncontrollable rogue. I don’t know what I was thinking the day I picked you up from that park.”

  “Tell me the story anyway,” Kihrin teased. “Even though I don’t brush my hair and I don’t obey—”

  “And you don’t do your chores—” Ola added with a huff.

  “And I’m never up and dressed by the first bell—” he agreed.

  “And you’re a thief—” she accused.

  “And I drink too much—” he confessed.

  “And you’re far too young to be such an incorrigible womanizer—” she yelled with increasing volume.

  “And I’m a terrible burden on my father!”

  They both shouted the last line together, ending in hails of laughter that resulted in Kihrin leaning forward, coughing. Ola whacked Kihrin a few times on the back when it seemed like he might choke. Finally, Kihrin reached for his goblet of wine and took several long gasping droughts before his lungs settled.

  Morea had her hand over her mouth too. She looked like she was trying not to laugh.

  “All right,” Ola said, as much to Morea as Kihrin. “I’ll tell you the tale.” To Morea she said, “He’ll be sixteen years old this New Year’s, and it will be sixteen years ago, this New Year’s, that the old Emperor of Quur died.”

  “What was his name?” Kihrin asked, with a wink to Morea, who looked startled as a lamb upon realizing the tigers were not going to eat her after all.

  “Gendal,” Ola answered. “Do you want me to tell this story or not?” She straightened her agolé for emphasis. “Yes, it was sixteen years ago, and Gendal had been murdered. We knew it was murder, because murder, my dear girl, is the only way an Emperor of Quur can die.”

  “No risk of an accidental death?” Kihrin asked. He leaned his head against the copper side of the tub, smiling.

  “Not even if he tripped on a rock and fell over Demon Falls,” Ola replied with grim authority.

  “He can’t catch the pox?” Kihrin asked.

  “Quite immune,” Ola answered.

  “Could he have eaten something poisonous?” Morea asked. She bit her lip but the whisper of a smile played at the corners there.

  “That’s the spirit, girl. No, he could not. Not even Manol black lotus could hurt him,” came Ola’s firm reply.

  “And when he grows old?” Kihrin pretended to be skeptical.

  “From the moment the Emperor places the Great Crown of Quur on his brow”—Ola raised a solitary finger upward and poked at the heavens—“he is immortal. He will never age, he will never be sick. No, the only way the Emperor can die is by violence—by murder.”

  “So how did you know he was dead?” Kihrin asked. He scrubbed himself with one hand while holding his goblet of wine with the other.

  “We knew because inside the Arena, where the contest itself is held, past the great invisible barrier that surrounds it—came a great shining light. It was the light of the Crown and Scepter of Quur. They return to the Arena when the heart of their owner beats no more. And they wait there for the next man who dares claim them. You can believe me, child, when I say men wasted no time spreading the word that the old Emperor was dead. It was time to choose a new Emperor. Everyone came to see.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Oh yes,” Ola said as she nodded her head. “Everyone. Rich, poor, old, young, fat, thin, freemen, slaves, citizens, and foreigners came to the park that very day. Some folk go their entire lives without seeing the choosing of the Emperor. Gendal himself lived for two hundred years. The opportunity to see the Choosing happens at most once in any person’s life, and no one wanted to miss it: least of all the men who hoped to become the next Emperor.”

  She smiled at the memory. “Ah, you should have seen it, my lambs. There was barely room to stand in Arena Park—barely room to breathe! There was no rank or status at such a time. Commoners bumped shoulders with High Lords. Guild masters found themselves boxed in by street thugs. Velvet girls were felt up by Ivory District priests! More purses were cut than ever before or ever since.” She paused significantly.

  “But worse crimes than purse-cutting were committed that day.”

  “Like what?” Kihrin raised an eyebrow at Morea, as if she might know the answer. Morea smiled and held up her hands.

  “The contest itself, some would say,” Ola explained. “For thousands of years the Great Empire has chosen its highest ruler in the same way—by contest of blood. They lowered the invisible wall surrounding the Arena, and all those men rushed in to claim the Crown and Scepter—and kill anyone who might seek to claim it first. I watched the best and brightest wizards of a generation go up in brightly colored patches of smoke on that day. Believe me when I say that with a little magic, human flesh can burn any color you can imagine and a few you probably can’t. The land inside the Arena was a cooking pot: it melted, it boiled, it flowed, and it steamed. And out of the crucible was born our Emperor.”

  “So, who won?” Morea asked.

  Ola was thrown aback for a moment as she realized the slave girl genuinely didn’t know. Ah, but what need for a sex slave to know the name of the Emperor? She probably didn’t know how to read or write either. Not everyone’s master was as liberal as Ola’s master Therin had been. The madam swallowed bile, shook her head, and continued the story.

  “To the profound embarrassment of the royalty, a commoner won,” Ola told Morea. “A peasant from Marakor named Sandus. But to win the Great Tournament is to become Emperor, no matter what your previous status, and so Sandus became our ruler. He still is to this day. When he finally exited the Arena, the crowd
screamed so loud that you could hear nothing but a roar. And that, my girl, is when I found Kihrin.”

  “Yup, it sure is.” Kihrin nodded in agreement, splashing water.

  “I saw his mother first, noticed her through the crowd.” Ola’s voice turned at once sad and passionate with longing. “She was an extraordinary beauty with golden-wheat skin and a shimmering brown curtain of hair. Her eyes were as gentle and kind as a fawn’s. She was lovely enough to be a princess, dressed in an agolé of fine ivory satin. She carried a small package in her arms, no larger than a few pieces of firewood.”

  Morea paused. She looked at Kihrin. The young man frowned and stared at the cloudy water as if it were a scrying glass. He was silent.

  Morea turned back to Ola. “So, what happened?”

  “I saw a man rush up toward her, place his hands around her neck, and choke the life out of her. There was nowhere for her to run to, you understand? And no way for me to reach her, because I was so crushed in with the others I couldn’t move. Still, she made a great showing for herself and fought valiantly, not that it did any good in the end.”

  “Didn’t anyone try to help?” Kihrin whispered the question this time, his voice bitter.

  “It is Quur, is it not? No one lifted a finger to help that lady. I saw the woman fall just as the roar of the new Emperor’s victory covered her screams, and by the time I reached the spot where she lay, her murderer was gone. Only her body and my darling, the babe she carried, remained. When I picked him up, I discovered, much to my amazement, that he was alive. He still had his birthing blood on him, and it was obvious little Kihrin had only come into the world that day. So if I had left him for someone else to find he would have surely died.” She grinned impishly as she finished the tale. “Kihrin is my one and only act of charity, which means that it’s true what they say about virtue.”

  Kihrin stifled a yawn. “And what is it they say, Mamma Ola?”