The Death of Nnanji (20 page)

“Amen.” Arganari had never put much faith in Reeve Pollex’s plans to snare the tyrant alive. No man who had conquered so much territory so fast could be such a fool as to let himself be captured. Kra’s attacks on the Tryst, at Arbo, Cross Zek, and elsewhere had admittedly stopped its advance before it reached Plo’s borders, but Nnanji’s withdrawal had been the obviously sensible response. Arganari had never doubted that he would return with much greater resources, unless his failure prompted his underlings to start fighting among themselves.

“His deputy, the swordsman Shonsu, is on his way here with an army, also intent on deposing you and your line and adding your kingdom to their swordsman empire.”

“And this time they will bring a greater force.”

“Undoubtedly, but Shonsu is by far the lesser man.”
The mask moved in the draft, and the play of light across its metallic face shaped a brief smile, thin lipped and venomous.
“Have you forgotten that he was an accomplice in the murder of your son? It was his sword that Nnanji borrowed to slay that helpless, wounded child. Tell your reeve to capture that one, so that you may yet enjoy inflicting an even slower and more subtle end on him than the one we have decreed for his master.”

A priest who had named himself the Merciful should not be tempted by such thoughts, but Arganari was far from being the only person to have suffered from that brutal child slaying. The news had killed his wife, and the consequences for his people must still work themselves out when his dynasty failed and scavengers made carrion of his ancient kingdom. It was those loses that cried out for vengeance, far more than his own.

“Listen carefully, little mortal. The fools think to attack you by way of Soo and the trail over the Mule Hills. Order your reeve to muster all the swordsmen he can from up and down the River, and also to empower the largest posse of civilians he can control. Shonsu sailed two weeks ago and expects to arrive by Barbers’ Day, although that seems unlikely. We shall send our sorcerers from Kra, armed with fearful weapons and our rage. They will require food, shelter, and ferry transport. Swordsmen cannot comprehend such weapons, so give your reeve explicit orders that he is to obey the instructions of Grand Wizard Krandrak. Do you understand?”

“I hear and obey, Dread Lord.”

“And your reeve must make sure that he has taken control of all the traffic on the River, so that even if Shonsu’s army reaches it, they cannot cross. Let them starve to death on the left bank.”

“The Tryst has enslaved more than half the World already. Can Plo and Fex stop them?”

“Plo, Fex, and Kra, and all freedom-loving cities along the Plo Reach. The Tryst’s dominion is founded on smoke. One serious massacre and it will collapse. Followers will slay leaders and in a year the Tryst of Casr will be a legend.”

Arganari desperately needed to sit down. Kneeling was out of the question, for he would never be able to stand up again, but his legs trembled and his joints ached. He sagged back against the masonry, feeling its spiteful cold through his silken robe.

“Where am I to find the money? Already my people groan under the taxes you had me impose last year. One season, you promised, and the Tryst would be gone forever. Now you say it is returning in wrath, stronger than ever.”

“Ask the fools if they would prefer the tyranny of the swordsmen to the centuries-long benevolent rule of your family. Will you surrender your kingdom to the men who slew your son? If even that crime does not arouse your righteous anger, then hear this. The ailing Nnanji has sent his own son along on this ill-fated expedition. Does that interest you?”

“His son? The monster’s own son?”

“His firstborn, a trainee killer the same age your prince was when Nnanji slew him.”

Slew him on the River! For a swordsman to kill a child was most foul murder, but to do so on a boat upon Her holy waters was sacrilege as well. Every day since then Arganari had prayed for justice. Was She about to grant it at last? Could killing children ever be justified? Appalled at the emotions this news raised in him, he dared again to question the god.

“Why are you telling my this, Dread Lord?”

Because if your response to our instructions pleases us, we may just give him to you. You can start to plan something suitable for the brat, to complete his education—fatally! Go and give Pollex his orders. We have spoken.”

“Wait!” Arganari shouted, but he was too late. There was no answer. The god had gone from his shrine.

Lord Krandrak, sorcerer of the seventh rank, grand wizard of Kra, watched through the spyhole until the geriatric king had tottered out of the shrine. Only then did he replace the speaking tube on its holder and turn to another spyhole to inspect the public corridor outside. Once he was satisfied that the coast was clear, he slid open the unmarked door of his hidey-hole and emerged into a pantry adjoining a rarely-used banqueting hall. He was happy to escape from the cramped and stuffy little room, one of several secret bolt-holes his craft maintained within the palace. Clad in sandals and plain brown loincloth, carrying his lute, he headed for the queen’s quarters.

The coven of Kra had known since its founding, millennia ago, that it was sited dangerously close to the Goddess’s city of Plo. The stronger and larger Plo grew, the greater became the peril, for it was only in the last couple of generations that the invention of explosives had evened the odds between Her swordsmen and the Fire God’s sorcerers.

Before that deliverance, the God’s Voice trick had been one of Kra’s methods of controlling the kings of Plo, and clearly it still had its uses. The manual warned that it should not be applied on any particular monarch more than twice, lest he begin to suspect the fake. This was the fifth occasion that the Fire God had summoned Arganari XIV, but Krandrak considered the risk worth taking. The old fool was too far gone in his dotage to notice anything amiss.

The seeming minstrel of the Third was barely forty, which was amazingly young for anyone other than a swordsman to reach seventh rank, and at least twenty years younger than anyone had ever held the post of grand wizard of a major coven. Kra-born, he had been orphaned when young, both his parents having vanished on missions to the lands of the Goddess, presumed murdered by swordsmen. The coven took care of its young and had recognized his brilliance early. For years he had railed against the swordsmen’s so-called Tryst—at first alone, and then as leader of a party of rebellious youths. Eventually, and very nearly too late, the antiquities on the council had awakened to their peril and elected him to fill a vacancy. He had refused to accept unless they made him grand wizard, and they had crumbled before his righteous certainty. He had driven the enemy away once, but the second time was going spill a lot more blood; some of it might even have to be sorcerer blood, but the prime strategy must be to make swordsmen kill swordsmen.

Without bothering to knock, he opened an unobtrusive door and walked into the queen’s dressing room. That door was reserved for special friends, and the only person who might be behind it at this early hour was the queen herself. Servants were not admitted until after she had risen, which was rarely much before noon.

This morning, though, Daimea was sitting at the table, brushing her hair and studying her own boredom in the mirror. Seeing Krandrak behind her, she came to life, rising and smiling as if they were equals. They were both sworn to the Fire God, but there the resemblance ended.

Maneuvering kings into suitable marriages was another sorcerous technique for controlling the swordsmen of cities such as Plo. King Arganari’s third wife had always been statuesque and was now close to monumental, although she had not yet turned thirty. Her skin was smooth as cream, her hair a soft honey shade, a paleness very rare among the People. Her lips were alluring, her breasts breathtaking. She had been born of sorcerer parents in Kra, although this was unknown outside the coven itself. Krandrak remembered her as a cherubic First, because he had been one of the Thirds assigned to train her in the so-called arts of love. Ten minutes into the first lesson, she had been teaching him things. Despite the singers’ facemark on her forehead, she was no more a singer than he was a minstrel.

“It went well, my lord?”

“No. The old fool has no fight left in him. You will have to work on him.”

She sighed. “Yes, Grand Wizard.”

“Fire him up. Raise his spirits!”

“I have had no luck at raising anything else for years.”

“We made you, Daimea. We can unmake you. You are very vulnerable to rumors of scandal.”

“Forgive my levity, lord.” Her humility rang as false as a stone bell.

“Pollex will raise an army, but Arganari has to fund it. Keep working on his worries about the succession and the murder of his son. Frighten him, prey on his fears.”

“I’m not certain it is possible to frighten him any more, my lord. He knows he can’t last much longer.”

“Anyone can be frightened. Tell him about the king of Abae, who left his city to his daughter. She ruled for about a week before a troop of free swords came by and decided to take it over. They impaled her husband and raped the queen to death.”

“Yes, my lord.” Daimea looked skeptical, so perhaps she had heard the true story. “And while we are on that subject, my lord, I am not quite certain yet, but I believe I may need help disposing of a slight accident.”

“Fool!”

“It happens,” she said with a shrug.

“Who was it this time?”

“Who knows?”

The queen was a tramp, happy to open for any man she could lay her hands on. The way she looked at Krandrak himself filled him with disgust. He took two quick strides to close with her.

“There is more than one type of accident,” he said.

He had a dozen ways to hurt or even kill her, yet she looked up at him with none of the fear his threat should produce. He knew she was not as stupid as she pretended, but he also doubted she was clever enough, or knew enough, to work out for herself how much he needed her for the next half year or so. Her lover must have coached her, and that narrowed the field to one of his own men in the palace. They must both be tolerated now, but after the Tryst had been repelled, they would be expendable.

See that she was not going to answer, he said, “Who is the father?”

“It certainly isn’t Old Palsy. If he tried that nowadays you’d hear his bones rattling in Kra. He knows it and everyone in the palace can guess it. The evidence has to go before I start showing.”

“I will make arrangements. A woman will ask to show you a topaz brooch, which you will purchase and wear.”

Daimea simpered. “Thanks.” She sauntered over to a closet and began inspecting gowns.

Krandrak took his lute across to the mirror to check his facemarks. He had journeyed from Kra to Plo as a carter and changed to a minstrel before coming to the palace, but that transformation had been rather hurried. He decided one of the lute shapes was smudged, and opened the hidden compartment in the sound box. With the aid of a small vial of Triple Distillate of Rock Oil and a rag, he wiped the lutes off and reinstalled them with fresh transfers. Minstrel was his favorite persona. Minstrels went anywhere they wanted and swordsmen never hassled them. He had a fine singing voice and performed when he had to.

“Report through the usual channel in three days,” he told Daimea. “I want to know your husband’s state of mind, and what orders he has given the reeve.”

“Yes, my lord. Don’t forget what I want, will you?”

“Every man in the city knows what you want.”

With confidence born or years of practice, Grand Wizard Krandrak walked out the outer door as if he had every right to be there in the royal palace, but there was no one in the corridor to see him. His next job was to track down Lord Pollex and warn him of the Tryst’s approach. Pollex was another sorcerer agent, although controlled by blackmail rather than money or oaths, but still the most important of all for the success or failure of Kra’s plans.

Glad to be rid of her obnoxious visitor, Queen Daimea walked through to her bedroom, where Pollex of the Seventh was still stretched out on the bed, stark naked. Just the sight of him made all her internal organs seethe with excitement. He had the sexiest body she knew, and his head on the pillow was framed in a pool of the heavy jet-black hair that fell around her like a tent when he was on top of her. He was also as close to insatiable as any.

“What did he say?” He had a deep, throaty voice.

“He said he would see to it.”

“Told you he would. Now come here and stiffen me up again.”

Chapter 3

Arganari’s eyes were awash again as he hobbled back along the north gallery. The wind still blew in his face, even now, when he was going the other way. He passed the empty plinth that should have been his son’s, then the one that waited for him. Thirteen ancestors to go. He knew that if he could see them they would be staring far above his head, not deigning to look down at him. He would not be able to meet their eyes if they did. He had failed them, dropped the torch. The dynasty must end with him.

He had tried. His first wife had died of puerperal fever, and the child with her. His second, Sisila, had been a great joy, the love of his life. She had given him a child, but only one, the boy the swordsmen had murdered. After the shock of Argie’s death had killed her, his ministers had begged him to marry a third time, but it been years before he could bring himself to do so. Eventually he had wed Daimea. She had given him a daughter; he would sire no more offspring now. Argair was a sweet child, very quick and intelligent. But what chance did she have in a world of men? Once in a while a king’s daughter would try to rule a city, but it never worked for long. Inevitably some swordsman would force her into marriage at sword point and declared himself king. Even then, her children might not succeed her. Often her husband would promote some other son of his from a previous marriage or a casual affair.