Besieged (41 page)

Imoshen felt her face grow hot.

Arodyti laughed and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re priceless.’

Imoshen shrugged. ‘It’s just... it doesn’t seem decent, inspecting the men like wares in a shop.’

‘If we don’t go watch the displays, how will we know which ones we want?’ Sarosune countered. She wrinkled her nose. ‘We don’t want the all-mother wasting her time negotiating a tryst for us, only to discover we don’t fancy the man she picks.’

Imoshen laughed, put the chart away and came to her feet. ‘I’ll just tell my devotee.’

‘And wear something nice,’ Sarosune called as she walked out.

‘The men will be looking at us, too.’ Arodyti said. ‘They give their all-father a list and the all-mother compares it to our list.’ She laughed at Imoshen’s expression. ‘Each person’s stature and the nature of his or her gift must be taken into account.’

After eight years in the city, Imoshen had come to understand the workings of the sisterhood. Egrayne formed the link between the elders of the inner circle and the next generation. Of the younger sisters, Arodyti and Sarosune were her closest friends

She and the healer Reoden had fashioned a friendship that was too important to Imoshen to jeopardise. And she’d even overcome Vittoryxe’s hostility.

In her private chamber, Imoshen found Frayvia playing cards with Iraayel. He would turn thirteen this winter’s cusp, and then he would move his bedroll in with the rest of the lads training to take their place in the brotherhoods. She didn’t want to send him to live with the lads; didn’t want to send him to Chariode’s brotherhood, when he turned seventeen. The day they’d arrived in the city, it had all seemed so far away. Now...

‘I claim the sisterhood,’ Iraayel announced, placing his cards in a line one by one. ‘I have the all-mother, voice-of-reason, hand-of-force, an empowerer and even a wildcard raedan!’

‘That beats me.’ Frayvia put her cards down. ‘All I have is a pair of shield-sisters, the gift-tutor and three gift-warriors.’

Summoning a smile, Imoshen interrupted. ‘I’m going out for a little while, down to the free quarter with Arodyti and Sarosune.’

‘Can I come?’ Iraayel put his cards down. ‘I’m tired of being shut in the palace.’

‘We’ll all go to the empowerment celebration tomorrow,’ Imoshen said.

‘That’s right, Lyronyxe is being empowered. I wonder what her gift will be. Sardeon told her she’d be a wind-wender, because she’s full of hot air.’

Frayvia rolled her eyes. ‘Brothers.’

Imoshen planted a kiss on her devotee’s forehead and tugged affectionately on Iraayel’s plait, which had grown past his knees. When he left the sisterhood she would have to cut it, to symbolise that he was dead to her.

Anguish, sharp and savage, made her gift surge.

Frayvia felt it. ‘Imoshen?’

‘It’s nothing.’ She slipped out to rejoin the shield-sisters.

‘You took so long I thought you’d changed your mind and put on something silky,’ Sarosune teased. ‘But here you are, still in the same boring clothes... the absent-minded scholar.’

‘At least wear your raedan torc,’ Arodyti urged.

‘I’m not sure where my torc is.’

‘Oh, Imoshen.’ Sarosune rolled her eyes. ‘You’re hopeless.’

‘She doesn’t care about stature, Saro.’ Arodyti shook her head and threaded her arm through Imoshen’s. ‘Sometimes, you say the most shocking things.’

‘You love it.’

Arodyti laughed. ‘Yes, I do, and that’s why I will never be welcomed into the inner circle.’

‘No serious talk today. I forbid it.’ Sarosune took Imoshen’s other arm. ‘Come on.’

As they left the sisterhood quarter, they were surrounded by T’En women, laughing and talking. It was the last day of spring and the air was warm with the promise of summer. The vivid colours of the sisters’ silks and satins contrasted brightly with the city’s white stones. The boulevard stretched out before them, all the way to causeway gate, which was closed today. No Mieren were allowed in for the next two days.

Up ahead, Imoshen could hear the deep voices of the men, and the sounds of drums and pipes made her heart race.

Sarosune shivered with excitement. ‘You should see them dance!’

In the park, each of the brotherhoods had staked out an area for themselves. Some played music, some performed poetry, others danced or practised their balance and combat exercises.

The impact of so many T’En men with their gifts barely contained was overpowering. Imoshen opened her gift awareness and saw that while there was some aggression in the air, the men were mainly focusing their gifts on bravado and display, honed with the keen edge of desire.

‘There’s so many of them. And they’re all so... hungry.’

‘Yes. Isn’t it wonderful!’ Sarosune spun happily on her toes. Her trousers swirled out provocatively, revealing the curve of her calves.

Several brothers responded by inviting her to hear them sing, or watch them dance. Imoshen tensed.

‘Don’t worry.’ Arodyti squeezed Imoshen’s arm, while Sarosune darted on ahead. ‘They won’t touch us without our permission. They wouldn’t dare.’

Gradually, Imoshen became entranced by the displays. Some of the men wore elaborate costumes. Their faces painted and their long hair dressed with jewels, they gestured elegantly as they recited poetry. Their words conjured up tragic pasts and brilliant futures. Others wore only breeches, their hair bound in the warrior’s braid as they practised their balance and strength exercises, moving into the long-knife patterns, blades flashing. Their athleticism and daring took Imoshen’s breath away.

‘See!’ Sarosune breathed. They’d paused to watch two shield-brothers. ‘Live blades.’

‘Live blades?’ Imoshen asked.

‘Not blunt practice blades.’

‘Oh... Such precision and trust,’ Imoshen said. This close to Sarosune and Arodyti, she could feel the shield-sisters’ gifts riding their excitement.

The men responded with teasing and bantering. They offered glimpses of their gifts, laden with promise. Imoshen smiled. She hadn’t let down her guard and played like this since Lighthouse Isle and Reothe. The pain of the memory made everything sharp and bright.

A group of women, beautiful as birds, swept past, their high sweet voices carrying over the din.

‘...Rutz’s new play is about to start,’ one said. ‘I swear he is the greatest living playwright.’

‘Come on.’ Arodyti urged. ‘We can’t miss this.’

‘Will Rutz be there?’ Imoshen asked. She’d seen two of his plays in a free quarter theatre.

‘Probably, not that we’ll know. Rutz is not his real name.’

‘Why doesn’t he use his real name? Doesn’t he want stature?’

‘They say his plays are so good he’s more than a word-smith,’ Arodyti said, eyes sparkling. ‘They say he is able to imbue spoken words with the power to sway people. With a gift like that, he could win himself a brotherhood, maybe even enslave the other all-fathers. If his identity got out, it could cost him his life.’

‘Hush, it’s starting.’

As Imoshen sat on the grass with Arodyti and Sarosune, she hugged her knees and studied the audience’s reaction to the play. It was about the handing over of a T’En baby, born of a Malaunje mother. The man playing the mother did a brilliant job. The audience laughed, but Imoshen found it difficult to join in. Didn’t they realise the play was a tragedy?

She looked away from the stage, and noticed a commotion at the edge of the park. The crowd parted to let a group of brothers through; shouts and laughter followed them.

Such was the disturbance that the musicians faltered and the actors fell silent. One of the new arrivals climbed onto the stage and unrolled a banner, waving it above his head.

‘Would you look at that?’ Arodyti gasped. ‘That’s All-father Hueryx’s banner, taken from his brotherhood’s palace tower.’

Imoshen had heard of banner-stealing, but couldn’t see the point.

‘It’s not easy to take another brotherhood’s banner,’ Arodyti told her. ‘They have to slip in, hide, make their way to the tower, grab the banner and get out again without hurting anyone. If they get caught, the other brotherhood beats them and throws them in the lake.’ She laughed at Imoshen’s expression. ‘A broken nose, maybe a broken bone and a ducking – worth it, for the stature.’

Another brother joined the first on the stage, displaying All-father Chariode’s banner to more cheers. Two more arrived with brotherhood banners, then another and another.

‘That’s six out of nine banners. I don’t believe it!’ Sarosune sprang to her feet. ‘I’ve never seen this many banners.’

‘I don’t think it’s individual brothers making a play for stature,’ Arodyti said as she drew Imoshen to her feet. ‘This is an all-father, claiming stature for his brotherhood.’

‘But which one?’ Sarosune asked.

‘We’ll know when we see the last two banners.’

‘All-father Paragian!’ The shout went up as two more men mounted the stage. ‘Paragian!’

Imoshen shook her head. After eight years of study, she believed she understood the customs of the T’Enatuath. Then something like this happened.

Would she always feel like an outsider?

B
UILDINGS STILL BURNED.
Sorne ignored the piteous moans of the injured, the weeping of mothers searching for children, and the cries of men looking for their wives and daughters among the raped and murdered. If he didn’t, he would go mad. A conquering army expected certain rewards, and King Charald was generous to his followers.

Sorne strode through the capital of Navarone, the final kingdom to fall to King Charald. After winning Khitan only to lose Chalcedonia, the king had started out with just four loyal barons and an army depleted by the flux; now he ruled all the mainland kingdoms of the Secluded Sea, except Chalcedonia.

Sorne was alone, having left his holy-swords taking a census of Navarone’s largest temple. He’d discovered leadership was mostly a matter of rewarding those who worked hard. The chance of advancement made men eager to serve him, and he did not favour noble over commoner.

Stepping around the rubble of a collapsed shop front, he ducked past an overturned vintner’s cart.

The softest of sounds made him glance behind him in time to see a blow coming his way. He ducked, and the cudgel took him on the shoulder.

With no time to go for his sword, Sorne grabbed the cudgel and twisted. Something snapped in his attacker’s wrist. The man swore and lost his grip on the weapon.

The scarred, middle-aged man backed up, calling for his companions.

Sorne tossed the cudgel away and drew his sword.

His new attackers were a pair of skinny, poorly-dressed youths, armed with nasty little knives. He recognised the type. Poor and desperate, they were more comfortable slitting the throats of drunks than facing an armed man.

As King Charald’s personal advisor, messenger of the Warrior god, Sorne had fought off two assassination attempts in the first year. This was without any combat training, and he still bore the scars of both encounters. His holy-swords were supposed to come between him and assassins, but he wasn’t the type to leave anything to chance, so he’d taken training in both armed and unarmed combat.

Now he eased into a swordsman’s stance.

The youths cast the middle-aged thug a quick look, turned and fled. The older thug spat and backed off.

Sorne’s hand trembled slightly as he sheathed his sword. He felt his shoulder gingerly. Broken collar bone. Again.

Breathing carefully, he cradled his bad arm against his chest and headed for the palace, where he would take some of the Khitite soothing powders. Not that he would admit to using them. The king used nothing for his wounds, and despised men who did.

Something about Sorne’s encounter with the thugs troubled him. It took him a few moments before he realised that, although they had all dressed like men of Navarone and the middle-aged thug had spoken Ronish, he had sworn in Chalcedonian. This was no random attack. Sorne suspected either his uncle, King Matxin, or one of the king’s supporters was behind it.

Keeping to the middle of the streets, Sorne finally reached the palace square. He paused at the steps of the palace, to shake the ash and dust from his robes.

‘King Charald is looking for you, Warrior’s-voice.’ It was the son of the deposed Khitite king. Eight years ago, young Idan had been a hostage; now he was fifteen and loyal to King Charald. Baron Etri –
King Etri
, Sorne reminded himself – had married Idan’s sister, and their son was heir to the throne. According to rumour, Etri wore his hair oiled and was now more Khitite than Chalcedonian.

‘I warn you, the king’s in one of his moods,’ Idan added.

Sorne nodded and gestured. ‘Over that way three blocks, there’s a wagon of wine barrels. See if you can find a cart. I’ll split them with you.’ Idan nodded and took off. For a prince, he had the soul of a merchant, and war was all about turning a profit.

Sorne entered the palace. He stepped over smashed glass, and dodged men removing bodies before making his way up the grand staircase. The buzz of activity told him where Charald was. How a man of fifty-two had so much energy, Sorne didn’t know.

He entered the chamber to find Charald dealing with the necessities of a conquered city. Judging by his rapid speech and hectic colour, the king was in one of his states. When he was like this, he needed very little sleep, and his temper could flare up at the slightest thing.

King Charald was ordering his men to put out the fires, clear the streets, make sure there was clean water, and get the markets up and running as soon as possible.

Seeing Charald would be busy for a while, Sorne went through to the balcony. If the king’s mania became too bad, he would slip Charald some of the soothing powder. He’d been doing it for a while now.

From the balcony, Sorne looked out across the port to the docks. Down by the wharfs the warehouses were still burning, and out on the bay ships were ablaze. In the last eight years, he’d seen his vision repeated over and over, accompanied by the pipers playing the triumph. Now he hated the sound.

Back in Khitan, he’d been a naive boy of seventeen. Shielded from the world, he’d wanted power, believing it would make True-men respect him. And he’d thought he owed Oskane and Uncle Matxin his loyalty. To that end, he’d turned Charald loose upon the kingdoms of the Secluded Sea. Tens of thousands had died, and Charald had forged an empire, rewarding each of his faithful barons with a conquered kingdom.