Storm and Steel (44 page)

Byleth gestured to him. “Very well.”

Horace struggled to find the words. “Your Excellence, I was not born in this country. I do not understand all of your customs, nor am I an expert in your laws. However, it would seem to me that executing these men would not serve Your Excellency's best interests.”

Angry voices called out from the assemblage, but the queen quieted them with a look. “Continue.”

“I was myself a slave, as I'm sure you recall. I remember the hopelessness and degradation that haunted my steps during those days. Yet there are people in your city who have spent years in bondage. Even their entire lives. Is it any wonder some of them chose to take up arms and fight to be free?” He looked out over the crowd, at the sea of seething faces. “Wouldn't any of us do the same if we were the ones in chains? If we saw our families bought and sold like property? Is there a single person here who wouldn't kill, or even die, to stop that from happening?”

“He's a traitor!” a man shouted from the back.

“Let him share their fate!” a woman called out.

The shouting began anew, so loud Horace couldn't make himself heard again. He searched for someone—anyone—who might join him in protesting this judgment. Yet he only saw condemnation. “Excellence, please,” he said. “They have fought for their freedom. At least allow them the chance to fight for their lives.”

The queen stared at him for several seconds. Then she stood up. A hush fell over the crowd. “These men,” she said, “are sentenced to the Grand Arena,
where they will fight to the death for our amusement. Take them from our sight!”

Cheers resounded from the nobles as the captives were dragged away. Jirom held his ground for a moment as two guardsmen pulled on his arms. Then he spat on the floor and let them haul him out.

“Put us against some of your pretty soldiers, Majesty!” Emanon shouted as he was wrestled toward the door. “We'll send them back in bloody pieces!”

Horace's legs shook so he could hardly stand. This was his fault. He'd had a chance to help Jirom and the slaves at Sekhatun. He could have defied the queen's command. Yet he'd stood by and allowed this to happen. Jirom's blood was on his hands. His stomach clenched, threatening to bring up his breakfast. He clutched the back of the throne for support, not caring about propriety. Fortunately, the queen didn't seem to notice as she walked out the hall, with Lord Xantu following in tow.

Horace took deep breaths to try to calm his stomach. His head ached again, bad enough he wanted to lie down. He didn't notice Lady Anshara standing behind him until she called to him. “Her Majesty would like a word in private.”

I'll bet she does. Going to dress me down behind closed doors. Maybe I'll be back in chains before the day is through. Not that I deserve any better. I let Jirom and the slaves down, so now I should join them
.

As the audience chamber emptied, Horace followed the lady out the back. The queen and Lord Xantu waited in the corridor. Royal guards flanked them. Horace kept a tight rein on his uneasy stomach as he bowed. “Your Excellence.”

“I have decided to remove you from the office of First Sword, Lord Horace. Tomorrow at daybreak you will leave the city.”

Again?

“The army of our enemies has crossed the Typhon River,” she continued. “You will stop them by any means within your power. This is your final chance to convince us that you remain our loyal servant.”

Horace didn't have the will to argue. It wouldn't do him any good, in any case. He'd once believed his elevation to the
zoanii
caste was an accolade,
a reward for his services. Now he realized it was a leash. An invisible collar. He might have a nice home and fine clothes, servants, and all the rest, but he was still a slave.

“But tonight,” Byleth said, “you will escort us to the Grand Arena where we shall watch the end of the rebellion together.”

Horace bowed again. “As you wish, Excellence.”

She stepped closer. “I think I like this side of you better. Perhaps when you return from your mission, we shall find more…pleasant…ways for you to serve us.”

He said nothing as she walked away, surrounded by her guards. He waited until they disappeared up a flight of stairs, then left in the opposite direction. He needed to talk to someone, and only one name came to mind.

He didn't exactly know where to find Lord Astaptah, but he'd heard plenty of rumors about the vizier's personal chambers under the palace's foundation. Many of those rumors also speculated about the nefarious things Lord Astaptah did in those subterranean chambers, but Horace had no reason to believe them. The man had saved his life at great personal risk, and he knew the royal court like few others.

He went deeper into the palace. Once past the outer ring of halls, the natural light dwindled, and the corridors were illuminated by torches in iron cressets.

As Horace turned down a corridor he hoped would take him to the central section, a pair of young slaves stopped and bowed low.

“Pardon me,” he said. “Can you tell me how to get to Lord Astaptah's quarters?”

The slaves exchanged a glance, and then both shook their heads. “
Neh, Belum
,” they said in unison.

“I think,” one said, with obvious hesitation, “there is a door.” He pointed the way from which they had come. “Straight until this hallway ends. And then take two right turns. But the way is unlit.”

“
Kanadu
.” Horace nodded to them and proceeded on his way.

The corridor went on a good deal longer than he expected before ending in a junction. He turned right and stepped into a dark hallway. As the slave
had said, there were no torches on the walls here, nor any brackets to hold them. Those who came this way were expected to bring their own illumination. He concentrated to channel trickles of Imuvar and Girru, and a ball of blue light appeared above him. It hovered over his shoulder as he continued on his search.

This hallway was shorter, running only about twenty paces before it arrived at an intersection. He started turning to his right when a looming figure emerged from the darkness ahead. Horace recoiled, both hands coming up before he recognized the other. “Lord Astaptah! I was just on my way to see you.”

The vizier stopped and peered at him from down his long nose. “Lord Horace. This meeting is propitious, for I was coming to call upon you as well.”

“Oh? What did you need with me?”

They walked back in the direction Horace had just come. The vizier had a long stride, forcing Horace to take quicker steps.

“I have just been informed of your return to the city,” Lord Astaptah said. “And the events in Sekhatun. I was coming to inquire about your health. I heard there was a battle.”

“That's what I was coming to see you about.” Horace told Astaptah about his role in the fighting and how he tried to parlay with the rebels. He left out that he knew Jirom from before, not sure how the vizier would look upon a ranking member of the queen's court having such a tie to the slaves. “And now the leaders of the rebellion are sentenced to die, and I feel like it's my fault. The queen should—”

“Be wary, Lord Horace. It is not wise to presume to judge the actions of Her Majesty. Especially here at the seat of her power.”

“I'm sorry, but these men don't deserve death. They were only fighting for the right to be free, the same as any—”

“If that is how you feel,” Lord Astaptah interrupted him again, “then you must do your utmost to stop these executions.”

Horace almost tripped. He had been prepared for anything. A rebuke to mind his betters. Or a lecture about the duty of the people to obey their ruler. Anything except agreement. “I'm pleased to hear you say that. So…how do I go about that? Without insulting the queen and losing my head, that is.”

“With extraordinary care. Her Majesty is beset by many enemies. If you oppose her directly, she will strike you down as surely as the night falls. When I was a student, my
hasseba
—my teacher—set a task for me. Every morning I had to catch a toad from the river and throttle it with my bare hands, and then bring the dead creature to my teacher as proof of the deed.”

Horace tried to get the image of Lord Astaptah wringing a toad's neck out of his mind. “Uh, I'm not sure what you're getting at. Are you saying I should let Jir—the rebel leaders die?”

“I did not finish my tale. On the third morning, I brought no toad, and my teacher beat me quite viciously. The next morning before dawn, I went to his house and killed him in his sleep.”

A chill ran up Horace's spine. He didn't know how to respond to that.

They had reached the corridor junction. Horace stepped into the torchlight, but Lord Astaptah stopped at the edge of the darkened passage. “Every so often, Horace, we come to a moment when the decisions we make will impact the rest of our lives. When such a time comes, the most important thing is to be true to yourself. Or else you will be lost forever.”

Horace nodded and started to reply, but Lord Astaptah's footsteps retreated into the darkness, leaving him alone once again.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Horace whispered under his breath.

With hurried steps he made his way back to the sunlit portion of the palace.

The roar of the crowd brought back memories, none of them good. The Grand Arena. Its vast oval pit covered in sand, soaked with the blood of countless men, women, and children. The torches along the top of the stadium with their crimson tongues waving in the cool evening breezes. Even the stars high above. They all conspired to remind him of that night not so long ago when he had stood in the pit below and fought for his life.

“Horace.”

He turned as Byleth entered the wooden box. She wore a floor-length
kalasiris
gown in dark green that, despite covering everything except her head and arms, showed off every curve. A fan-shaped neckpiece of gold plates complemented her other jewelry, the rings and earrings and bangles. Horace made a bow as she slinked into the throne at the front of the box. At her nod, he sat in the chair to her right. Lord Xantu and Lady Anshara stood behind them. It was to be an intimate affair, by royal standards.

Sitting beside the queen, he wore a neutral expression like a mask. It was the only defense he had against the conflict brewing inside him. He knew what was expected of him tonight, to sit at Byleth's side while his friend died. He told himself there was nothing he could do, with the queen and her bodyguards and all the
zoanii
in the other elevated boxes around the arena, any of them ready to burn him to ashes if he so much as raised a finger in Jirom's defense.
But he wouldn't hesitate for a moment if it were you, and you know it
.

That knowledge pained him most of all. It shattered every excuse he tried to use to convince himself that the situation wasn't hopeless.

A line of drums below the royal box rumbled to life, filling the stadium with a thunderous roll. One of the pit gates opened, and a procession entered the fighting area. They were priests and priestesses of Tammuz, wearing their white death garb, complete with dark iron masks. The people in the stands took to their feet and touched their foreheads. Even the queen. Horace stood out of respect but kept his hands by his side.

“I want you to know, Lord Horace,” Byleth said as she sat back down. “Your loyalty means a great deal to me. There are not many I can fully trust. I hope I can count on you.”

“You can, Excellence. But if you expect me to fall on my sword, I can tell you right now—”

“Perish the thought! I removed you as First Sword because the role never suited you. After you deal with the Nisusi, you'll return to Erugash as my High Vizier.”

“I'm not sure I'm the man for the job.” He paused before adding. “With all due respect, Your Excellence.”

She gazed around the arena, seeming to take delight in the crowd of people preparing to witness their blood sport. “And why is that?”

“I'm not sure we share the same vision for the future.”

Her laughter grated on his raw nerves. “Oh, Horace. Why do you persist in believing there is justice in the world? Honor, duty, justice. These are merely words we who rule devised in order to enslave our inferiors in webs of conflicting desires. Even the gods cannot be bothered to punish the wicked or reward the righteous. The rebellion is over, and balance is restored to the realm.”

Horace struggled to form a reply that wouldn't get him executed, but he was spared by a sudden roar from the stands. A party of gladiators had emerged onto the sand. The pit fighters were outfitted in a variety of armors and helms to resemble different cultures. There was even a “western soldier” in mail with a shortsword and round shield. They lifted their weapons to the multitude while they paraded around.

Horace considered a silent prayer.
God or Gods. Whoever is watching this. Jirom is a good man. Please find some way to spare his life
.

After a moment's hesitation, he added one more thing.
And if you wouldn't mind, I could use a little help keeping my own head attached to my body
.

The second gate opened, and several men stumbled out. Horace looked closely, but he didn't recognize any of their faces. Jirom certainly wasn't among them. The new arrivals looked disheveled and malnourished. Several sported half-healed wounds and dark bruises. Each man carried a round shield the size of a dinner plate and a shortsword; none had any armor.
This isn't going to take long
.

The gladiators, whom Horace took for professionals, had arrayed themselves in a semicircle surrounding the rebels. They played to the crowd, banging their weapons together, waving the men to come forward. The rebels stayed together in a tight cluster, their eyes darting back and forth. Horace squeezed his hands tight together.
Come on! Spread out a little!

He gritted his teeth as a gladiator darted forward and thrust his spear through a rebel's thigh. The victim collapsed, screaming as he clutched his injured leg. A second spear jab took him through the throat.

“Well done!” Byleth called out. She leaned toward him. “I know you tried to make an accord with these men.”

Ice slid through Horace's veins. He tore his gaze away from the fight. “Excellence, I never intended to disobey your—”

“You aren't the first man to try to find his own solutions, Horace. You should have seen the calamities my brother would get himself into, always trying to maneuver himself to greater heights. But remember this. You aren't a prince of the blood. You're not even Akeshian. There is only so much I am willing to forgive. Oh!”

Down below, three of the rebels were lying in the sand now, unmoving. The rest were trying to fight back, but they were outmatched by the professionals. Another rebel fell, holding onto the stump of his left wrist. His vanquisher lifted his weapon to the stands. Live or die? Their calls were riddled with derision. The gladiator put his sword cleanly through the downed rebel's chest.

“Mercy?” Horace winced at the plaintive tone in his voice, but he pressed forward anyway. “To honor their bravery, Your Excellence.”

Byleth's smile widened as another rebel was killed, kicking his legs as he bled out from his stomach. “My darling, why would I want to honor such a pitiful thing?”

Horace seethed as another scream echoed from the pit and the crowd roared with delight.

Byleth observed him as she beckoned to Lady Anshara. “Wine, Horace?”

He shook his head. He was leaning over the railing, staring down at the combat as if wishing he could be down there, too. He was thinner than he had been, almost as scrawny as when she first met him, fresh out of the collar.

“There was another assassination attempt while you were gone.” She tried to sound as if she were discussing something entirely mundane. “They actually got into my bedchamber, which you've never seen.”

Horace nodded but said nothing. She saw a brief flash of emotion cross his face, but she couldn't tell if it was concern or simple annoyance.

She took a sip of wine. “I often feel my death approaching. Moreso these past couple months. I know a queen should not fear anything. Yet I cannot help myself. I don't believe there is anything waiting for me after this life. What do you think about that?”

Horace frowned as he glanced over at her. “Do you taunt me, Excellence?”

“Of course not, Horace. I want your honest opinion.”

“Men are dying before our eyes. By your order. Pardon me if I'm not sympathetic to your newfound fears of mortality.”

“And if I agreed to spare their lives?”

“Will you?”

She shook her head and smiled. “No.”

His gaze returned to the pit below. His knuckles were bone-white as they gripped the railing.

It was just like old times. The roar of the crowd. The smells of blood and sweat and fear mingled with leather and old sawdust dredging up primal urges inside him, diminishing all of life down to one elemental equation. To kill or be killed.

Back where I started
.

Jirom clenched and unclenched his hands as the gate opened and two slaves dragged Jerkul's body inside. The sand-caked corpse had been hacked
until its arms were barely attached to the shoulders. A ghastly wound sliced across the lower belly, spilling out brown entrails. Sadly for Jerkul, it had not been a quick death.

“Fucking hell,” Emanon said, standing beside him. “How can you be so calm?”

They were chained to the tunnel wall, awaiting their turn with the rest of the rebels who had been captured at Sekhatun. Jirom watched as Lappu was unchained by a pair of guards. He struggled with his captors, which was admirable, but after several blows to the back and shoulders with their truncheons the guards hauled him up the ramp. The gate opened again, filling the tunnel with light and fresh cheers from the spectators, and then slammed shut again, plunging the rest of the rebels back into darkness. It was a cycle he remembered well, like the chime of prayer bells marking the hours of the day.

“You cannot deny the fear,” Jirom said. “You must use it.”

Emanon swore. “That doesn't make an ounce of sense. And I'm not afraid. I'm pissed off and ready to tear someone's heart out.”

Jirom looked to the closed gate. At least he had some small hope that Three Moons and Longar may have escaped, as they weren't among the prisoners. Thinking about them made the feelings in his chest stir. “Then you'll soon get your wish.”

“And you can forget about your friend, the First Sword, coming to save us. I saw his face. He belongs to the queen now, heart and soul.”

Jirom didn't respond to that. There was nothing to say. He still trusted Horace, however it appeared. He knew what he'd seen in the man's eyes.

“Jirom, look at me.”

He didn't want to. He was angry, too, but nothing could overcome the feeling he was to blame for this. He had agreed to the assault on Sekhatun. He had led them into the jaws of the trap, and then failed to get his fighters out. Now he was forced to watch as they were butchered one by one for the sport of the crowd.

“Dammit, Jirom! Look at me!”

With difficulty, he turned his head.

Emanon's deep-green eyes stared at him. “Jirom, I want you to know that
no matter what happens, I've never loved anyone as much as I love you. I never thought it was possible. You opened my heart, and I'm forever grateful.”

Forever isn't going to last much longer, my sweet man
.

Jirom opened his mouth to say he felt the same way when the gate opened with a rumbling shudder. Lappu's remains were dragged inside. Terrible wounds covered the body, parallel tracks that looked like they'd been inflicted by large claws. Most of the face had been chewed off. Jirom swallowed a curse. Lappu was the last of the crew who'd been with them at Omikur. Now it was just him and Emanon.

The cheers of the crowd rolled above the tunnel. As the guards came for them, Jirom spied a slim figure lurking at the bottom of the ramp. The person wore a long cloak with the hood drawn up. Staying to the shadows that obscured the bottom of the tunnel, the figure moved its hood far enough to show her face. He caught the gesture she made.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Emanon asked.

Jirom nodded to the figure before she disappeared. “Things just got more interesting. Tell me more about how much you love me.”