Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (38 page)

At first, he didn't think the attack had any effect. A nimbus of crackling energy surrounded Puzummu's hand. Lightning flared like a second sunrise, its incandescence filling the arena pit. At the same moment, an intense cold burned against Horace's chest, but he barely noticed as he twisted out of the way of the blast. He landed face-first in the sand, arms extended to cushion his fall. He looked up, prepared to be cooked alive. Lord Puzummu stared back at him. Then a gout of bright blood spurted from the nobleman's shoulder as his right arm sheared away. He fell onto his side, blood pumping from the severed stump. His mouth opened and closed, but only a shallow groan emerged.

Horace wanted to throw up. Legs shaking, heart pounding, he teetered away from the fallen noble. Mulcibar's medallion was cool against his flesh.

The crowd stared down at him with barely a sound. Gone were the jeers and the catcalls, gone the cheers for his opponent. Alyra stood alone at the edge of the retaining wall, her face wet with tears.

Horace started the trudge toward the gate by which he had entered, but he hadn't gone ten steps before the queen's voice filled the stadium. “None shall leave,” she said, “until one of the two combatants is dead.”

He stopped and looked back. Lord Puzummu was lying on his side, somehow still alive and conscious even as blood soaked into the sand under him in a growing pool of crimson. Horace glanced up at the queen. Her eyes watched him as if she were desperately hungry. Like they wanted to reach down and pick him up.

“Then kill him yourself,” he said. “Majesty.”

Horace reached out with one hand, and the gate flew off its hinges with a loud snap. The dozen paces to the tunnel seemed to take him hours, but by the time he reached the shadowed ramp, the crowd had found its voice again. There were many boos, to be sure, but in the background he heard something else, a chorus of “
Belzama! Belzama!
”

The back of his neck tickled for a moment and then subsided as the trumpets blared.

Birds trilled outside his window, announcing the beginning of a new day. Horace sat up and grimaced as a host of aches announced themselves. His chest was wrapped in bandages, as were several places on his arms and legs, and every inch of his skin felt like it had been scoured with a wire brush.

Alyra entered, carrying a covered tray. “
Sobhe'tid
, Horace.”

He stifled a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Past time you were up and about.” She lifted the cover to reveal a plate of sliced oranges with clotted cream, two cups, and a silver teapot.

As she poured the tea, a knock came from the door. Horace sat up as a servant woman named Murtha peeked inside. She fell to one knee at once. “Master Horace, men are here for you.”

Horace stood up carefully to avoid taxing his sore muscles and reached for a robe hanging on the wall. “Is it news of Lord Mulcibar?”

Before the woman could reply, loud footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door opened farther to admit Pomuthus. “Priests have come, sire. From the Temple of Amur.”

Horace pulled on the robe, wincing as the wounds across his chest flared up. Alyra helped him. Within minutes she had brushed out his hair, washed his face, and cleaned his teeth. Then she and Murtha took off his bedside robe and dressed him in fresh underclothes and a new robe of olive-green silk stitched with tiny gold birds.

“What do you think they want?” he asked as the women finished with him.

“I'm not sure,” Alyra answered. “But be mindful of what you say.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You publically embarrassed the queen at the grand arena. It's an unforgivable offense among the
zoanii
. She could have you executed for less.”

“I don't care. I'm not an assassin and no one is going to force me to kill a beaten man. Anyway, you keep telling me how valuable I am.”

Alyra sighed. “Yes, well, today is
Tammuris
. Tensions will be high. Remember that you are a member of the court, which means you are due a certain amount of respect, but the cult of the Sun God is very powerful. The wrong word could put you in a great deal of trouble. And Her Majesty may not be as forgiving the next time.”

“Thanks for putting me at ease.”

Horace left, following Pomuthus down to the ground floor of the house. Two of his bodyguards stood at attention outside the parlor. Inside the room, men in yellow robes could be seen, standing quietly. Horace took a deep breath and went inside. Five men in priestly garments stood along the opposite side of the room. Their bald heads shone in the light coming through the glass doors that led out into the garden. One of the priests looked familiar, and Horace realized it was Rimesh, the official who had interrupted his first audience with the queen. It seemed like ages since he'd seen the man, but he was certain this was the same priest. He generated an aura of command like some ship captains Horace had known. He was holding one of the house's deity figurines.

“
Mina'ce shomana?
” Horace asked.
How can I help you?

Rimesh put the idol back and replied in perfect Arnossi, “We can speak in your home tongue if it makes you more comfortable.”

“Ah, thank you.” Horace indicated the cushioned seats. “Please, sit.”

Rimesh sat in a chair, but the rest of the priests remained standing. Horace eased himself down on a loveseat. “Would your comrades like to—?”

“No, thank you. We haven't met properly. I am Rimesh, envoy from the Temple of the Greatest Sun in Ceasa.”

“The Greatest Sun?”

The priest apologized, though there was nothing deferential in his eyes or tone. “I forget you are a foreigner. That's a term we use to connote the rank of the various temples. The temple in Ceasa is the highest rank, the font from which all knowledge and authority flows.”

It reminded Horace of everything else about Akeshian culture: the castes, the ranks of the
zoanii
. Everything was tightly regimented. “So what brings you to my home this morning?”

Rimesh smiled. It was thin-lipped with no teeth showing. “I have heard much about you and so decided I must meet you in person. It's rare for someone to rise so quickly to the heights of the royal court.”

“Especially for a savage,” Horace said, unable to help himself. There was something about this man, a conceit that oozed from his pores like a strong musk. The priests Horace had known back in Arnos were sometimes pompous in their station, but none had such an overpowering personality as this man.

“You misunderstand me. I have not come to preach but to learn from you.”

Horace's stomach grumbled and he was thirsty enough to drink a river, but he had already decided he would starve before inviting these men to breakfast. “I've already told the queen everything I know about the plans of my countrymen, which wasn't much. I was just a—”

“A common sailor,” Rimesh finished for him. “Yes, I've read the transcripts. I've read everything I could obtain about you, which is more than you might realize.”

Horace wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but he was getting tired of this uninvited interview. “Sir, if you'll excuse me. I have much to—”

“Radiance.”

“Pardon?”

“The correct term for an envoy of the temple is ‘Your Radiance.’”

Horace cleared his throat and climbed to his feet to signal that the conversation was over. “I'll remember that.”

He was about to call Pomuthus to show the priests out when the glass doors opened and his gardener entered. “Shulgi,” Horace said, “this is not the right…”

Horace's voice trailed off as Shulgi took off his wide hat. Underneath was not the boil-covered countenance Horace expected. Instead it was a face he recognized at once, despite the missing mustache and beard. “Lord Isiratu? What in the hell…?”

“Is it done?” Rimesh asked.

Isiratu nodded. Though he still wore the dirty clothes of a gardener, he stood tall with the haughty bearing Horace remembered so well. “
Manzazu leku'ima, Imaru.
”

Horace froze, caught between panic and anger. The anger took precedence as he addressed the envoy. “I want an explanation. What is this man doing in my home?”

His throat went dry as the four attendant priests behind Rimesh dropped their outer vestments to reveal crimson robes underneath, and he realized there were now four priests of the Order of the Crimson Flame standing in his parlor. As Horace reached for his
qa
, a gust of wind knocked him on his back, and two arms of living stone burst through the carpet and clamped around his middle, holding him in place. As Horace struggled, there was a commotion behind him. Captain Pomuthus ran past. A sharp snap like a cracking whip split the air, and warm blood spattered Horace's face. Pomuthus fell to the floor beside him, the soldier's body cleanly separated in half at the waist as if by a colossal razor.

Horace felt his gorge rising as he struggled against the stone arms. They refused to budge, but he still had his
zoana
. He focused on Rimesh and lashed out, hoping that by taking out their leader the other priests would relent. Yet his power struck something in the way, a barrier that surrounded the envoy like a bubble. Horace threw all his strength against the unseen bulwark, but it resisted. Too late, he thought of trying to free himself with the power. Before he could even make the attempt, something unseen struck him behind his right ear.

Points of light swam before his eyes. He must have blacked out for a moment. His face hurt and blood leaked from his nose. The stone arms still gripped him, so tight he could hardly draw breath. Isiratu stood beside Rimesh, both of them watching him. Horace heard a muffled yelp and craned his neck as Alyra was dragged into the room by two Order sorcerers. A strip of green cloth gagged her mouth. Their gazes met, and his heart crawled up into his throat.

“I apologize for this indignity,” Rimesh said. “Yet it has become necessary.”

Horace strained to sit up, but he couldn't move an inch. “Let her go. I'll go quietly.”

“We'll leave no witnesses today. Soon, the city will have forgotten about you. That will be for the best.”

“What are you going to do with us?”

“You will be taken to—”

As Rimesh answered, Horace grabbed for the nothingness inside him and focused it into one mighty push. Not at the envoy, but toward the two sorcerers holding Alyra. Both red-robed men flew backward and slammed against the far wall. Freed, Alyra looked to Horace, but he yelled, “Run!” before an invisible gag filled his mouth. She fled, not toward the foyer as Horace had expected, but out the glass doors.

“Bind him!” Rimesh shouted.

A sorcerer knelt beside Horace and produced a pair of shackles. Horace's heart beat faster at the sight of the
zoahadin
cuffs. The Order priest reached for his arms, but Horace unleashed his power again. The sorcerer staggered back as if he had been kicked in the chest. As Horace started to form another attack, a powerful clout clipped him above the left temple. His vision dimmed for a moment, and he felt the cool touch of the shackles around his wrists before it cleared. Horace sagged against the floor as the
zoana
poured out of his veins, leaving him empty and weak.

“That was a foolish gesture that only delays the inevitable,” Rimesh said. “And her end will be the crueler for it.”

The envoy gestured, and one of the sorcerers went after Alyra. The stony arms released Horace, but before he could get up, the carpet rolled itself around him so tight he couldn't move anything except for his toes.

“Take him to the temple,” Rimesh said. “And make sure the woman is eliminated.”

The rolled carpet rose into the air and then started moving. Tucked inside, Horace could see only the circle of daylight above him.

As Horace was carried out the front door, he caught a glimpse of his bodyguards lying on the foyer floor, their armor shredded like bloody paper. Their sightless eyes followed him out into the morning light.

Alyra held her breath as the Ordained Brother followed the garden path just a handful of paces past her hiding spot behind an origanum bush. She didn't know much about the Order's magicians, except that they were a secretive lot, trained by the cult of the Sun God to be utterly loyal and without fear. And they were extremely dangerous. As the Brother passed by, she wanted so badly to part the fronds of the bush and watch to be sure he wasn't coming back, but she didn't trust her hands not to shake and cause some noise.

Horace, thank you for giving me this chance to escape, but damn you to all the gods. I warned you time and again to be careful.

She gave a silent sigh.

You're as much to blame as he is. You got lax, Alyra. Now Horace is dead or soon will be, and you are hunted by magicians who won't hesitate to kill you on sight. So what's your plan?

A muted squeak came from the west end of the garden. When she fled the house, she had opened the wrought iron gate and slipped back inside, hoping to throw off any pursuit. She strained to listen, but the garden was quiet. Alyra counted to thirty and then counted it again. She had gotten to twenty-seven when she spotted the top of the Brother's bald head hurrying back in the direction of the house. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

She waited another couple minutes to be sure, but when no one emerged from the manor, Alyra slipped away through the garden. She had been happy for the short time she lived here, but that was over now. She exited the garden gate, looking both ways down the narrow avenue to be sure she wasn't being watched, but the only person she saw was a tiny old man in a broad hat shoveling offal into a wheelbarrow. She darted past him, heading deeper into the city.

It was almost midmorning, and she was able to slip into the crowd once she reached a main avenue. Her mind whirled as she tried to foment a plan to help Horace. She tried not to think of what she would do if he died.

Don't even consider it. He's alive! He has to be.

Her feet led her away from the storied manors of the palace district to the alleys of the Dredge and the house with the blue door between the
messhagan
trees. The old woman answered at once, as if she had been expecting a visitor.
Alyra went inside and down the dark hallway to the back room. She didn't have to wait long. A side door opened, and a man in a short-sleeved tunic and skirt of homespun wool entered. He nodded to her as he approached. Alyra didn't know his real name, but here he was called Cipher.