Codex Alera 06 - First Lord's Fury (13 page)

There was nothing but silence.

Bloody crows,
Tavi thought.
That’s brilliant.

“Fail to set aside your irrational need to continue this conflict, and you will leave me no other choice.” Her hands rose to replace the hood, veiling her alien beauty again. Her voice dropped to a quiet, calm, uninflected murmur. “I
will
come for you.”

Tavi stopped himself from shuddering, but only barely. Max didn’t bother to try.

“Tell your neighbors. Tell your friends. Tell any who were not here to see that the vord offer you peace and protection.”

Silence reigned. No one moved.

Max said, very quietly, “Peace and protection. You think she’s serious?”

“No children,” Tavi murmured back. “A stranglehold takes longer to kill than does a clean thrust—but it makes you just as dead.”

“You don’t feel it when you go, either,” Max replied.

“At least now I know why,” Tavi said.

“Why what?”

“The vord Queen is keeping a steadholt of Alerans captive, near Alera Imperia. Like animals in a zoo. It was an experiment, to see if it could be made to work.”

Max blinked at him. “How did you know about that?”

“Crown secret.”

Max grimaced. “If everyone heard this, in all Alera . . . Tavi you know that there are going to be people scared enough to do anything.”

“I know.”

“If we lose even part of our people to desertion or surrender, it could kill us. We’re at the brink.”

“That’s why she’s doing it. I said it was an attack, Max.”

Varg looked over at Tavi with narrowed eyes, his ears pricked forward. The Cane was close enough to have heard even their lowered voices.

“What are we going to do about it?” Max sighed. “Crows, look at them.”

Everyone, Canim and Aleran alike, stared at the image of the vord Queen. Their fear and uncertainty filled the air like woodsmoke.

“Tavar,” Varg growled suddenly. “Your helmet.”

Tavi glanced at the Cane. Then he drew his helmet off and passed it over to Varg.

The Warmaster of the Canim leapt up onto the low stone wall on the edge of the pool, helmet in hand. He stalked through the shallow water until he stood before the image of the vord Queen.

Then he swept the helmet in a horizontal arc, catching the water that formed the hooded head of the vord Queen, decapitating the watery image.

Then he flung back his head and drank the helmet empty in a single draught.

Varg rose to his full nine feet in height before roaring, his basso voice a challenge to the volume of the watersending itself, “I AM STILL THIRSTY!” His sword rasped clear of his scabbard as he lifted it high and faced the Canim soldiers. “WHO WILL DRINK WITH ME?”

Thousands of eyes focused on the Warmaster. The silence became something brittle and crystalline, something that was on the brink of shattering, changing. Fear and rage and despair surged in the air, like the confused, shifting winds that preceded a storm or the currents that could rip swimmers in any direction when the tides began to change.

Tavi dismounted and strode forward to stand beside Varg. His hobnailed boots clicked on the stone of the wall and splashed through the water. He took back his helmet from Varg’s grasp, swept it through the watery heart of the image of the vord Queen, and drank deeply.

Steel rasped on steel as ten thousand swords sprang free of their sheaths. The sudden, furious roar of the Canim shook the air with such force that the water of the pools danced and jumped as if under a heavy rainstorm. The watersendings could not maintain their integrity in the face of that disruption, and they collapsed, splashing back down into the pools, shaken to bits by the enraged howls of Canim and Aleran alike.

Tavi joined them, shouting in wordless anger, and drew his sword, lifting it high.

The storm of approval from the Canim redoubled, making the plates of Tavi’s lorica vibrate and rattle against one another, resolving into a thundering chant of, “VARG! TAVAR! VARG! TAVAR!”

Tavi exchanged a Canim salute with Varg, then turned and went back to his horse. He mounted up on the dancing, nervous animal and beckoned Max and his second guard. As they rode from the Canim camp, the crowd, still howling his Canim name, parted before and around them in an armored sea of swords and fangs and wrath.

Tavi kicked his mount into a run and headed back to the First Aleran’s camp.

“What are we going to do?” Max called as they rode.

“What we always do when the enemy attacks us,” Tavi said. He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “We’re going to hit back.”

Invidia entered the massive, dome-shaped structure where the vord Queen took a daily meal and shuddered as she always did. The walls were made of faintly glowing green
croach
. There were swirls and mounds of it everywhere, splayed into abstract shapes that were both beautiful and revolting. The ceiling stretched fifty feet overhead, and Invidia could have used the massive space beneath it to teach a class in flying.

Spiderlike creatures, the keepers, swarmed over the
croach
, their many-legged, translucent bodies fading eerily into the ambient glow of the walls, floor, and ceiling. If a keeper wasn’t moving, one could all but stumble over it, so well did they blend with the massive construction. Hundreds of the creatures swarmed through the place, climbing smoothly up the walls and across the ceiling, a constant and irritating motion.

In the center of the dome was the high table from the banquet hall of the High Lord of Ceres along with its chairs. It was a gorgeously carved, massive construct of Rhodesian oak, a gift to the current High Lord’s great-grandfather. One could have seated half a cohort of
legionares
along its length without once hearing armored shoulder plates click together.

The vord Queen sat at one end of the table, her hands folded primly upon its tablecloth. The tablecloth was grimy, stained with the great furies only knew what fluids, and had not been cleaned.

The Queen made a gesture with one pale hand to the seat on her left.

Invidia’s customary seat was at the Queen’s right hand.

If Invidia had, for some reason, been replaced, she knew it was unlikely that she would leave the dome alive. She controlled an urge to moisten her lips and focused upon her body, preventing her heart from racing faster, her skin from breaking into a cold sweat, her pupils from contracting.

Calm. She had to remain calm, confident, and competent—and most of all,
useful
. The vord had never heard of such a thing as a retirement. Unless one counted being buried alive and dissolved by the
croach
.

Invidia walked across the floor, nudging a slow-moving keeper out of her way with one foot. She sat down beside the Queen. She had to survive the meal. Always, survive. “Good evening.”

The Queen stared down the table and was silent for a moment, her alien eyes unreadable. Then she said, “Explain the gestures Alerans make to show respect to their superiors.”

“In what sense?” Invidia asked.

“Soldiers do this,” the Queen said, lifting her fist to her heart and lowering it again. “Citizens bend at the waist. Mates press their mouths together.”

“The last isn’t quite a gesture of respect,” Invidia said, “though the others are. They are an acknowledgment of the other’s status. Such an acknowledgment is considered to be necessary and favorable to the order of society.”

The Queen nodded once, slowly. “They are gestures of submission.”

Invidia did arch an eyebrow this time. “I had never really considered them such. However, that is a valid description, if an incomplete one.”

The Queen turned her unsettling eyes to Invidia. “Incomplete in what sense?”

Invidia considered her answer for a moment before saying, “Gestures of deference and respect are far more than simply acknowledging the greater power of another. By accepting such a gesture, the person who receives it also acknowledges an obligation in return.”

“To do what?”

“To protect and assist the person making the gesture.”

The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “He who holds the greatest power has obligation to none.”

Invidia shook her head. “But no matter how powerful an individual may be, he is only a part of a greater whole. Gestures of respect are a mutual acknowledgment of that fact—that both the giver and the receiver are part of something greater than they, each with his role to play within the whole.”

The vord Queen frowned. “It . . . acknowledges the need for structure. For order. That for the good of all, that which must be, will be. It signifies acceptance of one’s part of that order.”

Invidia shrugged. “At its core, yes. Many Alerans never give such gestures any serious consideration. They are simply a part of how our society functions.”

“And if such a gesture is not given, what results?”

“Unpleasantness,” Invidia replied. “Depending upon the person who has been slighted, there could be repercussions ranging from retaliatory insults to imprisonment to a challenge to the
juris macto
.”

“Justice by combat,” the Queen said.

“Yes,” Invidia replied.

“The rule of strength over the rule of law. It seems to reject the ideals of Aleran social order.”

“On the surface. But the fact of the matter is that some Alerans are a great deal more powerful, in a direct and personal sense, than nearly all of the rest. Attempting to force a particular behavior out of such individuals by any direct means could lead to an equally direct conflict, in which a great many people could be harmed.”

The Queen considered that for a moment. “Thus, indirect means are used to avoid such situations. The lesser are encouraged to avoid provoking a direct confrontation from one of greater power. Those of great power must consider the possibility of direct conflict with someone who is their equal before taking action.”

“Precisely,” Invidia replied. “And the safest way to manage conflicts is through the rule of law. Those who too often ignore the law in favor of the
juris macto
become outcasts within the society and run the risk of another Citizen taking matters into his own hands.”

The Queen folded her hands on the tabletop and nodded. “Among the vord,” she said, “we rarely contemplate indirect means of conflict resolution.”

Invidia frowned. “I had not realized that any internal conflict existed among your kind.”

The Queen’s expression flickered with something that was both chagrined and sullen. “It is rare.” Then she straightened, cleared her throat—an artificial sound, since as far as Invidia could tell, she never did it at any other time—and asked, “How was your day?”

It was the signal to begin the ritual of dinner. Invidia never grew any more comfortable with it, despite the repetition. She replied politely and made inane, pleasant conversation with the Queen for a few moments as the wax spiders, the keepers, trooped toward the table bearing plates, cups, and cutlery. The insectlike vord swarmed up the table’s legs in neat ranks, setting a place for the Queen, for Invidia . . .

. . . and for someone who was apparently to sit at the Queen’s right hand. The empty chair with its empty plate setting was unnerving. Invidia covered her reaction by turning to watch the rest of the keepers bringing forth several covered platters and a bottle of Ceresian wine.

Invidia opened the bottle and poured wine into the Queen’s glass, then into her own. Then she looked at the glass in front of the empty seat.

“Pour,” the Queen said. “I have invited a guest.”

Invidia did so. Then she began uncovering platters.

Each platter bore a perfectly square section of the
croach
. Each was subtly different than the next. One looked as if it had been baked in an oven—badly. The edges were black and crisp. Another had sugar sprinkled over its surface. A third was adorned with a gelatinous glaze and a ring of ripe cherries. A fourth had been coated with what had once been melted cheese—but it had been scorched dark brown.

Invidia sliced each piece into quarters, then began to load the Queen’s plate with a single square from each platter. After that, she served herself the same.

“And our guest,” the Queen murmured.

Invidia dutifully filled the third plate. “Whom are we entertaining?”

“We are not entertaining,” the Queen replied. “We are consuming food in a group.”

Invidia bowed her head. “Who is to be our companion, then?”

The Queen narrowed her insect eyes until only glittering black slits were visible. She stared down the length of the enormous table, and said, “She comes.”

Invidia turned her head to look as their guest entered the glowing green dome.

It was a second queen.

It shared its features with the Queen: Indeed, it might have been her twin sister—a young woman little older than a teenager, with long white hair and the same glittering eyes. There, the similarities ended. The younger queen prowled forward with alien grace, making no effort at all to mimic the motion of a human being. She was completely naked, and her pale skin was covered in a sheen of some kind of glistening, greenish mucus.

The younger queen walked forward to the table and stopped a few feet away, staring at her mother.

The Queen gestured to the empty chair. “Sit.”

The younger queen sat. She stared across the table at Invidia with unblinking eyes.

“This is my child. She is newly born,” said the Queen to Invidia. She turned to the young queen. “Eat.”

The younger queen considered the food for a moment. Then she grasped a square in her bare fingers and stuffed it into her mouth.

The Queen observed this behavior, frowning. Then she took up her fork and began cutting off dainty bites with it, eating them slowly. Invidia followed the elder Queen’s lead and ate as well.