Storm and Steel (16 page)

The people in the crowd were mainly men. Common folk, judging by their plain garments. None appeared armed, although the sheer number of them—at least a couple hundred—was intimidating. Since he'd arrived in Erugash, Horace had never seen such a demonstration before.

“The people still revere the cult of Amur.” Ubar glanced over at the queen as she made her way to the gunnels where sailors were preparing the gangplank. “Despite Her Majesty's long-standing conflict with the priesthood.”

Horace would have liked to say he felt bad for what had happened to the priests of the Chapter House. He still recalled the terror that had closed around him the night of the villa attack, the certainty that he was going to die, horribly and viciously. He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy. Yet the Order would have killed him for his role in their temple's destruction. It was simply a matter of when. And now he could breathe a little easier.

Preceded by her bodyguards, the queen departed the barge and entered a palanquin waiting for her. Lord Xantu strode ahead of the car with a wedge of soldiers, clearing the way as the royal entourage got underway. The rest of the court followed behind in rented litters.

Making his way down the gangplank, Horace hoped to slip away. Back at the palace there would be a welcoming ceremony followed by a formal audience with speeches and presentations, and most of the court would be expected to join in the frivolity lasting late into the night. He just wanted to go home, away from the pomp.

Gurita, the commander of his house guard, waited at the bottom of the ramp with two more guards and a string of horses.

Horace beckoned to Mezim. “There's a change of plan,” he told the secretary. “I'm going back to the manor.”

“With your permission, I will go to the palace to check on the latest news.”

“Yes, do that.”

Horace walked down to his guards. “I'm glad to see you men. How has everything been since I left?”

Captain Gurita saluted. He was a big, burly man whose nose looked as if it had been broken at least twice, and as a result he spoke with a deep nasal tone. “Good to see you, your lordship. Things have been interesting. As you can see, some of the citizens are not too happy. There have been some riots in the poorer areas, but nothing serious.”

I wonder if those riots had anything to do with the rebellion?

They provided Horace with a tall gelding, already saddled and ready. As he climbed into the saddle, he looked around for Alyra, but she was lost in the crowd. Sighing to himself, he joined the procession.

The chain of litter cars crawled at a turtle's pace until they were past the throng of protesters. After that, they sped along the wide boulevard leading into the city center. A few blocks from the palace, Horace gestured to his guards and turned down a side street. Giving his steed a kick, he found himself smiling as he trotted away, as if he were leaving his problems behind him. Then he came to the wide round plaza known as the Wheel. On most days it was filled with merchants and traders dealing their wares, but today Horace found it almost empty. He saw the reason soon enough. A gallows had been erected at the center of the plaza. Eleven iron cages hung from the crossbeam. Inside each cage was a person. Ten men and one woman. Some bore signs of beating and whipping. All of them wore an iron collar, their only garment. Clouds of flies buzzed around the cages, crawling on the inmates, in their hair, on their faces. Most of them didn't move, and Horace thought they might be dead. Until he saw an eye blink or a hand twitch. They were all alive, although barely. A wooden sign hung atop the gallows.

Treacherous slaves who dared to raise their hands against their lawful masters.

Horace gritted his teeth as he rode past the sickening display. He'd been told that Akeshian owners were cracking down hard on their slaves because of the growing insurrection, but this was the first he'd seen it for himself.
Lord, help Ubar in his mission. He might be our only chance to end this with minimal bloodshed.

Taking the avenue on the north end of the Wheel, he entered the Cattle
Quarter, home to the city's wealthiest families. And his home, too, for the last three months. When he'd first moved into the estate, he had been confused by the district's name until Alyra explained to him that wealth in Akeshia had once been measured by how many cows a man owned.

The sight of the peach-colored walls relieved him after the long journey. The manor house was like a miniature palace, its grounds surrounded by a high stone wall.

A variety of objects cluttered the street outside his gate. Bowls and boxes and bundles of flowers. He even saw a goat staked by the wall, gnawing on what appeared to be a sculpture of a man's head carved out of wood. Half a dozen people stood in the street, facing his home.
Oh, no. I thought these lunatics would have given up by now.

In the days following the fall of the Sun Temple, gifts had begun appearing outside his home. They were inconsequential at first—cheap trinkets, a loaf of bread, the occasional jar of wine, and such. But with each day, the gifts had become more numerous and extravagant. His staff hadn't known who was leaving them until the first admirers showed up, singing songs and chanting “
Belzama!
” with the zeal of true believers, although he didn't have a clue what they thought they believed in. For the next week, Horace had ordered his servants to provide the gathering with water and food and ask them kindly to leave. But the people refused the sustenance and ignored the request. After that, Horace had left orders for these people to be left alone with the hopes they would disperse on their own. That did not appear to be the case.

“What do they want?” Horace said as he approached his home.

“Well, that's hard to say,” Captain Gurita said, looking over. “But if I had to venture a guess, I'd say they believe you were sent by…” He glanced up toward the heavens.

“They think I come from the sky?”

“So to say, your lordship. To be more precise, they think you were sent by the gods.”

“That's insane!”

“Pardon me, but you may want to go easy on these, uh, admirers. Times are hard, and people need something to believe in.”

“I'm not going to pose as some kind of demigod just to appease their superstitions.”

“Not saying you would, your lordship. Just don't discount their need for hope.”

Horace swallowed the retort on his tongue. Half the city viewed him as a gift from the gods, and the other half as a curse. “I'm not discounting it, but I'm not the one they should put their faith in.”

The house gates opened as they got close. Harxes, his new house steward, rushed out holding a staff across his body as if he expected to fend off a host of attackers. The people in the street did not move, but they stopped chanting as they spotted Horace and his guards. Then they lowered their faces to the ground in genuflection.

“This is a nightmare,” Horace muttered.

“
Belzama!
” the people shouted, and resumed their chant, which now included a drawn-out blessing “on the Lord of Storms and his house for all time.”

Harxes came over, waving his staff around, though he didn't actually hit anyone. “Forgive me,
Belum
,” he said, huffing as he bowed before Horace. “I've tried to clear them away each day, but they come right back. Shall I call for the Watch?”

“No, don't bother. They aren't hurting anyone. But send all that food to the nearest poorhouse before it spoils.”

“As you command. May I escort you inside?”

They filed through the gate. The house's southern wings enclosed an outer courtyard that was paved in red brick and featured a central fountain of three sphinxes spitting water.

Horace winced as he dismounted, surprised at how sore such a short ride could make him. More evidence that he was getting soft. He rubbed his hands together, remembering the feel of calluses on his fingers. Now all he could feel were the waxy burn scars seared into his palms. He resolved to get more physical activity. As he walked to the front door of his home, he hit upon an idea. He would take a boat out on the river. No servants, no guards. Just him and a dinghy.
When am I going to find time for that? I'm already up to my eyebrows
in work, and I'm sure there's a mountain of correspondence waiting in my office. But it would be nice….

The door was held open by Mekkano, one of his newer servants he'd hired after Menarch Rimesh and his cultists had killed most of his staff when they kidnapped him. Horace forced himself to smile as he walked past, but every time he saw one of the new hires, it reminded him of that hellish experience. Captured, put in chains, and thrown into a pit. If not for Alyra, he might still be there right now.
Don't forget Lord Astaptah. Without him, you and the queen might both be dead.

The cook waited in the foyer with a large clay cup. Horace accepted it and took a sip. The brown beer was thick and rich. Sighing with relief, he performed the ritual spilling on the floor to thank the gods for his safe arrival. It was a ridiculous custom, of course, but he did it to make his servants feel better. Another thing Alyra had told him, that Akeshian servants expected their employer to follow the traditions of their culture, even if he was a foreigner. It seemed to work, as the servants all smiled at his attempts to emulate their ways, from speaking their language to observing their religious idiosyncrasies, of which there were many. Akeshians took their gods and myths very seriously.

Thinking of Alyra, Horace wanted to ask if she had come home yet, but he held his tongue. If she wanted space, he could give it to her.
She knows where to find me if she wants to talk. And if she doesn't, well, then I guess I'll have to deal with it. Best to keep busy to take my mind off her.

As he handed the cup back, Horace allowed himself to relax. He was home again. Safe. Or as safe as he could be. No place in Akeshia was truly safe.
Not even a royal villa in the country.

Harxes withdrew a scroll from his robe and held it out. “This arrived for you two days ago. From Lord Mulcibar's estate.”

The name jarred Horace out of his musing. He took the scroll and inspected the imprint rolled across the wax seal. It was from Lord Mulcibar's house, but with a different personal signature. With a nod, Horace went upstairs to change out of his traveling clothes. His room was laid out just as he had left it. The bed was of Akeshian construction, low to the ground with a firm reed mattress, but Horace had introduced western-style sheets of fine
linen that were cooler than woolen blankets and didn't make him sweat, like silk did. He also insisted on real pillows stuffed with feathers rather than the stiff bolsters used by the locals.

A vase of fresh lilies sat by the open window. A robe—silver silk with black trim at the cuffs and collar—and clean sandals had been set out, as well as the copper bathtub, filled and ready for him. He stripped down and slipped into the lukewarm water with a sigh. Although he missed the hot springs under the queen's villa, this was just the thing on a hot day. He closed his eyes and tried to forget his troubles for a little while.

After a few minutes, his curiosity got the better of him, and he picked the scroll up off the floor. He broke the seal and unrolled the papyrus sheet. The letter within was written in a fine, precise hand, close enough to Lord Mulcibar's script that Horace had to peer closely to see the differences.

First Sword of Erugash, Protector of the City, Horace of Arnos,

I greet you. Since learning of my great-uncle's passing, I have recently returned to Erugash to take possession of my inheritance.

It has come to my attention that certain items of property have been bequeathed to your lordship. I invite you to visit at your convenience so that I may make your acquaintance and enjoy the pleasure of knowing one who was counted as a friend of my late uncle, who now dwells among the stars above forever and ever.

—
Lady Anshara of the House Alulu

The style of the writing was so stilted that Horace had to read it through twice to make sure he had the full meaning. Lord Mulcibar had never mentioned any family, certainly not a niece. Horace wondered where she had come from.
Probably a rural estate where she was kept away from the troubles at court. But now she's here. I should talk to her. Tell her what became of her uncle.

It wasn't a conversation he looked forward to, but it was the right thing to do. He was also curious what “items of property” Mulcibar had left to him.
That old man was always full of surprises.

Setting the letter aside, Horace closed his eyes and allowed the outside world to drift away. His problems could wait until he finished his bath.

Long shadows stretched across the city, cast from a hundred roofs and spires. The moon had risen in the east while the sun was setting in the west. A good omen, as Lady Sippa chased her brother from the sky. This was a night for deciding important matters and making pacts. In the long-ago antiquity of the empire, nights like these were host to great orgies of flesh, and sometimes blood, as the Kuldeans who had come before the empire slaked their primitive thirsts. Or so she had been taught.