Storm and Steel (37 page)

By the time she finally touched down on solid earth, the palace grounds were filled with soldiers. Torches raced around in the night. Alyra let go of the rope and ran across the courtyard to the nearest section of wall. She didn't even pause to look around before she jumped up, her tired legs protesting, and hoisted herself to the top.

Her drop to the other side wasn't as graceful as her entrance had been, but she landed on the street without breaking any bones. She just wanted to close her eyes for a minute.
Get moving! You can sleep when you're dead.

Ignoring the aches in her arms and legs, she took off. Across the street and down a gap between an upscale brothel and a counting house. She had entered the palace from the south, but she left heading north and slightly east, moving parallel to the Great Canal. She paused at the far side of the alley, peering out into the dark streets of Erugash. The sounds of activity had fallen behind her.

She had a safe place to spend the night, the home of a friend she'd made outside the normal network channels. Come morning, she intended to find a way to get to Horace. With the queen dead, he just lost his most powerful protection against the political factions. The Sun Cult would come for him. She intended to convince him to leave Akeshia.
I only hope he doesn't get the notion of avenging Byleth into his head.

“Where are my physicians?!”

“Be still, my queen. I have sent for them.”

Gods blind them, they'd better hurry.

Byleth hissed as pain ripped through her. She almost clutched her
zoana
and swatted Lady Anshara, who held the bed sheet to her bleeding shoulder, but the woman was only trying to help. Instead, she focused on the face of the
dead slave lying on her bedroom floor. She didn't recognize him, but there were scores of slaves in the palace she didn't know.

Then there was the matter of his accomplice. She'd sensed someone else in her bedchamber during the attack, but they had fled. After killing the first assassin, she'd sent her power questing for the second and found someone descending the outside of the palace. Her guards found the rope tied to the balcony. Quite daring. Yet her magic had failed to capture the culprit, for some reason she hadn't understood at first. Not until she saw the shiny dagger on the floor beside her would-be killer.
Zoahadin
.

The other assassin must have been armed with the same magic-defeating metal. She didn't know why the second killer hadn't stayed to finish the job, but their incompetence probably saved her life.

“All right.” She pushed Anshara away. “All right! Go lead the search. I want that second assassin found before daybreak.”

Lady Anshara left at a quick jog, almost bowling over the captain of her guard. Orthen bowed to the lady's back as she departed, then bowed to Byleth. His full lips were pulled down in a frown as he addressed her, making him look like a melancholy fish. “Majesty, I've put a double guard around your suite. Every other available man is searching the palace and surrounding neighborhood. Also, your handmaidens' apartment is empty. I found the door locked.”

“Of course. The killers did not wish to be disturbed.”

“It was locked from the inside, Majesty.”

Oh, you naughty girls. Plotting against your queen, are you? Not of all you, certainly. But I'll find out which of you helped these men.

“Close the gates and docks, Captain! I want them found!”

“Yes, Majesty!” Captain Orthen saluted and raced out.

Byleth pounded the carpet with her fist. She doubted locking down the city would help. The conspirators were probably gone already, back to their masters. She suspected King Moloch was behind this attack, though the
zoahadin
blade was a new tactic. Few
zoanii
would deal in such methods. Even poison was more honorable.

“Wine!” she yelled.

As a low-ranking guard fumbled to fill a goblet, Lady Anshara returned. Byleth was about to lash out at her for returning empty-handed when the lady held up a handful of papers. “What is that?”

“These were found on the floor of the sitting parlor, Your Majesty. It is possible one of the assassins dropped them.”

Dropped them or left them on purpose.

“Give them here.”

After a brief inspection to make sure the pages held no latent enchantment or poison dusting, Byleth took them from the lady's hand. They were letters between Lord Qaphanum et'Porranu and several nobles, some living here in Erugash and others from around the empire. She read with growing dread the details of their conspiracy against her. An awful taste spread from the back of her throat as her stomach threatened to revolt. She dropped the letters on the floor, unable to believe what she had read. She had known Lord Qaphanum since she was a child.

“Gather them up,” she said. “Arrest everyone mentioned in these papers and bring them to the palace.”

Lady Anshara bowed and left once again. Byleth called for a scribe as she leaned back against the foot of her bed. A cold wind laced with the scent of rain blew in through the bedroom window. She breathed it in.

Now she had names. Now she had something substantial to grapple with instead of gossip and knives in the dark.

Lightning flashed outside the window, followed by the sharp crack of thunder.

Cambys, Kasha, and Yadz were standing behind Corporal Idris as Ismail entered the alley.

“I'm back.”

“About time,” Cambys said with a lopsided grin. His blind, white eye was an uncomfortable sight. “We were about to leave, with or without you.”

Ismail wiped his face with his sleeve. Despite the chill of night, he was covered in sweat under the heavy wool robe he wore. Beyond the alleyway, the towers and rooftops of Sekhatun crowded the skyline.

“Did you get a look inside the militia hall?” the corporal asked.

“Ah, yeah. For a couple seconds. I counted fifty bunks, but about half of them were bare. I think maybe there's another guard house somewhere we don't know about.”

“No one asked you to think.” Idris turned his head, and Ismail looked away from the nasty yellow bruise covering the side of the corporal's face. Ever since the fracas with Ramagesh's men where he took a nosedive into the sod, the corporal had been even more of a hardass than before, and no one thought that was possible.

“What took you so long?” Kasha asked in a whisper.

“I was waiting for Seng,” Ismail said. “He just disappeared on me at the guard hall.”

It was after curfew. By standing order of the governor, anyone caught out of doors after sunset was placed under immediate arrest.

“I heard one of the scouts saying they had a different mission than us. Sergeant Mahir is probably taking them to spy on the palace or something.”

“We're moving out,” Corporal Idris announced, and he started down the alley in the direction of the River Gate where a skiff was waiting for them.

“What about the captain?” Ismail asked.

Emanon had led them into town disguised as peasant fishermen with a haul of river trout to sell. Once inside, they spread out to check on the town's defenses. Sergeant Jerkul's squad went to investigate the walls. Ismail's squad was responsible for counting the militia. Another squad was checking the food stores. Yet Captain Emanon had gone off on his own.

Corporal Idris shouldered past him. “We got our orders, trooper. Get moving.”

Ismail looked to the others, but they were quick to follow the corporal, filing down the alley in their threadbare disguises. Ismail tagged along at the end, grumbling to himself. His superiors led and he followed. It was the story of his life since he'd been a child, and he didn't know how to break the chain.

Idris stopped at the other end of the alley and looked out. Then, with a quick motion of his hand, he waved everyone along. Ismail paused when he got to the alley mouth, wanting to say something but without a clue what it might be.
To hell with you! Stop treating us like children. We're supposed to be soldiers, not slaves.

They all sounded good in his head, but they crowded on the back of his tongue, unable to come out. “Your turn,” Idris said. “Walk slow but don't stop. I'll be right behind you.”

Nodding in spite of his resentment, Ismail started out. They were crossing a long plaza that led back to the southern half of the town. Remnants of the market—loose garbage, a pile of broken lumber, an abandoned cart wheel—were scattered around the open space. Faint smells lingered in the air, of cooking meat and animal pens.

Kasha walked twenty paces ahead of him, and Cambys another thirty paces in front of him, both of them hugging the side of the plaza. Ismail tried to remain quiet the way Seng moved. He was getting a little better at it. He reminded himself with every step not to appear conspicuous.
Just keep looking ahead and walk naturally. You're just a fisherman on his way home.

Kasha and Cambys had reached the far side of the plaza, and Ismail was almost there when shouts echoed behind them. Remembering the corporal's instructions, he kept moving but couldn't help himself from glancing back over his shoulder. Several men in militia uniforms were converging on someone. Ismail ignored Idris's gestures to keep moving and stopped for a better look.

The man fleeing from the soldiers wore a long brown robe with the hood pulled up over his head.
We should help him. Maybe he's a slave trying to escape or a—

Ismail almost swallowed his tongue when a militiaman caught up to the runner and snatched the hood off his head. It was the captain.

Emanon reacted with a punch that knocked the soldier to the ground with a smashed nose. Next he deftly spun out of the path of a spear butt swung at his head and kicked his second attacker in the stomach, following up with a knee to the chin that sent the militiaman reeling.

Ismail thrust his hand under his robe to grab his dagger as he stepped toward the fight, and collided with Corporal Idris, who stopped him dead in his tracks. “Keep moving, trooper!” the corporal snarled in his ear.

“But the captain needs our help!”

Corporal Idris shoved him. “You have your orders. Follow them or I'll put you down where you stand.”

Ismail staggered back a step. In a hot flash of emotion, he considered drawing his blade, but the corporal slapped an open palm over his knife hand, trapping the weapon in its sheath, and pulled him into a close embrace. “This is part of the plan,” Idris mouthed. “Just keep moving.”

Amid the growing circle of onlookers, Emanon was struck across the back of his shoulders by a baton. A second blow knocked him to his knees.

His heart hammering against his breastbone, Ismail allowed Idris to steer him out of the plaza. The sounds of fighting stung his ears, but he fought the temptation to look back.

Once they were in the next street, the rest of the squad huddled around. “What should we do?” Yadz asked, his face pale and dripping sweat.

“We get out of here,” Corporal Idris said. “And fast.”

Ismail wiped his forehead with his free arm—his right hand still gripped tightly to his knife handle—as he followed them down the street.

“Understand that the Gates of the Stars must be entered in their proper order and at their proper times. And that the spirits of the Outside require a sacrifice of fresh-spilt blood. If they be denied this gift, they shall take it from the summoner, for so it is writ in the ancient pact that our forefathers forged with the celestial Spheres.

“Understand that the Fallen ever seek to return, and if that should happen an age of eternal Night will come to the world. The Dragon shall return with fire. The seas will boil with Her infernal wrath, and the skies will be made as dark as sackcloth. Be ever vigilant, for this is the goal of every acolyte of the Dark Ones.

“Remember your amulets and sigils, lest you be the victim of evil sorcery. Remember to honor the Sun and the Moon and all the heavenly bodies, for they were placed in the sky to guide us. Remember the waters of the rivers and seas, for they once gave us life, and so shall all life someday return to their womb.

“Remember…”

Horace sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The air in the governor's reading room was deathly still and smelled of roses. The administrator of Sekhatun had a penchant for the flowers; every room in the palace had a vase of fresh-cut roses, and the reading room had
two
. Horace was beginning to abhor the scent.

He sat at the governor's rosewood desk, reading from the borrowed tomes he'd brought from Erugash. He still had the feeling they held an important clue about what happened to Lord Mulcibar.

He'd started this morning with
The Ninety-Ninth Day
, but after an hour without seeing anything that pertained, he switched to the
Codex
. Horace paged through it, pausing now and again to make out a passage, but it was more of the same. He was about to move on to the third book when he came across a drawing he'd seen just a few minutes ago. He flipped open
The Ninety-Ninth Day
until he found its match, and he put the books side by side. Two pictures of a sleeping serpent at the bottom of a subterranean sea, nearly identical.

The written passage above the drawing in the
Codex
spoke of a time before
the world was made, how Erimu—the “chaos mother” if he was translating correctly—gave birth to the gods, who in turn created the world of men. The gods repaid their mother by placing her in an enchanted slumber and chained her to the bottom of a vast ocean in the underworld.

He shoved the tomes away. It was all nonsense, and he was a fool for thinking some old books were going to tell him why Mulcibar had been killed. He suspected he knew the reason anyway. The nobleman had been investigating the demon attack on the palace. Whoever conjured those things must have discovered this and put an end to his snooping.
And here I am following in his footsteps, reopening this old wound. But I can't just let it go. Whoever sent the creatures had been trying to kill me. And the attacks haven't stopped with Mulcibar's death. If anything, I fear more for my life now than ever before.

He was closing both books when a small mark in the
Codex
caught his eye. He almost took it for an ink smear until he realized it was two very small characters written close together. The characters for the sounds
hur
and
ris.
Those characters meant nothing when put together as far as he knew, but say them aloud and they made…

Horace.

Beneath the characters was a notation written in a hand Horace recognized. Another message from Mulcibar from beyond the grave. It simply said “dead book,” and a number. One hundred twenty-four.

Horace dragged over the
Book of the Dead
and turned to page one twenty-four. Most of the page was filled with cabalistic diagrams, circles and lines and squiggles that made no sense to him. At the bottom were a few lines of text.

Seven are the Lords of the Abyss,

Seven the evil fiends who tear at the souls of men.

Seven are the steps on the ladder down to the underworld,

Seven the watchers at the Gates of Death.

Horace sat back in his chair. What was Mulcibar trying to tell him?
He knew he was being targeted, and he counted on me to track down these clues. All right. So what are they supposed to mean?

He was poring over all three librams again, looking for more notes, when Mezim entered. Horace looked up. “Do you have those new reports?”

Much to his surprise, the town council had actually begun the work he'd ordered last night. He'd asked Mezim to keep an eye on the wall repairs and the recruitment drives specifically, because he considered them the most vital aspects of their defense. The rebels usually attacked with small bands—no more than fifty or sixty fighters. They'd have a difficult time assaulting a town this large with sturdy ramparts manned with a couple thousand soldiers.

“Nothing to report just yet, Master,” Mezim said. “But the militia officers are confident they will sign up three hundred able-bodied men before day's end. Barracking and outfitting them will likely be the biggest problems.”

Horace nodded as he returned to his study. “I trust you to make the necessary arrangements. Just tell everyone you speak with my voice.”

“Ahem. As you wish. Two messages arrived for this morning.” He held out one scroll. The royal seal was stamped across a blob of purple wax. “This came by flying ship. Captain Muranu will wait to carry back your response.”

The queen is running that man ragged. It must be important.

Horace took the message and started to peel it open. “You said two?”

The queen's letter was brief. She was beset on all sides by enemies. She wanted him to finish in Sekhatun and get back to Erugash as soon as possible. Her final line tugged at him.

You are the only one I can trust, Horace. Return to me before I falter.

Mezim cleared his throat. “The other was from Master Naram of House—”

“Just burn that one. Maybe he'll leave me alone.”

“It's interesting you say that, Master. The message wasn't another challenge. Master Naram has invited you to witness his death.”

“What?” Horace stood up. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“The heir of House Nipthuras intends to immolate himself this evening. At sunset.”

“Is this because I won't fight him?”

“I believe so. The act is meant to shame you.”

Horace sat back down, shaking his head.
I'll never understand these people. No matter how hard I try, I can't fathom their fascination with dying.

“Fine,” Horace said. “Send his family a note with my condolences.”

“That will be viewed as a grave insult—”

“I don't care. Do it. And get those progress reports for me.”

Mezim bowed and left, closing the door behind him. Horace let out a deep breath as he tried to get back to his reading, but the mood was gone. He needed to get some fresh air. He went through the bedchamber to put on sandals before heading out.

The soldiers in the corridor came to attention as he stepped out the doorway. Horace nodded to Captain Gurita, glad to see a familiar face among the now fifty-strong escort Governor Arakhu kept adding to his retinue.

They went down to the ground floor. Functionaries stopped and bowed as Horace passed, but he didn't know any of their names. As he went out the front entrance—with ten more soldiers holding open the doors and saluting—Horace wished he'd thought to ask Mezim where the wall repairs were being done so he could supervise the work.
I'll just poke around.

The sky was somewhat overcast with banks of low, gray clouds covering large swathes of the firmament. The sunlight was dampened as if it couldn't be bothered to show up today.

Horace strode through the great plaza fronting the palace, noting that it was emptier than it had been the day before. A few clusters of people stood together, but otherwise the square was vacant. Even the labor crew working on the statue was absent.

The sense of emptiness persisted as he led his horde of guards west down the street. It occurred to him that it might be a holy day—the empire had dozens of them—and the people might be at worship.

When they reached the western gatehouse, Horace asked for the officer in command, and a lieutenant of the militia was brought before him. The man bowed several times. “How may I serve, First Sword?”

“I've come to see what progress you've made in the fortifications.”

“Very good, Great Lord. Please, come with me.”

The large gates were opened. Horace and his guards followed the lieutenant
outside and south along the wall. Up close, Horace could see the many pits and cracks. Though the wall appeared sturdy enough to repel common bandits, he worried how they might hold up if the rebels got hold of some siege weapons. He suspected the ancient brick would crumble under a concerted attack.

As they passed the base of a square tower, Horace spotted a chain gang up ahead. Twenty men shackled together at the ankle, most of them also wearing iron collars. They were hauling large bricks from a pile over to the wall where a crew of masons worked at creating a new layer to the existing bulwark.

The crew stopped working and climbed down to bow as Horace approached. The handful of guards watching the slaves forced their charges to kneel in the dirt, heads down. Horace used both hands to gesture for everyone to get up. After a moment's confusion, the guards dragged the captives to their feet.

“Who's in charge of this work?” Horace asked.

One of the workers stepped forward. He was one of the few not wearing a collar. “I'm the foreman, your lordship.”

Horace looked along the wall, which followed the lay of the plain as it sloped down to the river. He counted four more crews working down the line, laying fresh brick. Gangs of slaves carried pots of mud from the river to a site where it was mixed with crushed gypsum and sand. The resulting mortar was then hauled to the crews at the wall. “How long will it take you to finish?”

“Fourteen days for the walls, your lordship. And another eight days for the tower facings. After that, we've been ordered to begin reconstruction on the main gatehouses.”

Twenty-two days. I don't think we have that long.

He considered using his power to augment the repairs. He might be able to use the Kishargal dominion to strengthen the brickwork, or Mordab to dry the mortar faster. But considering his recent problems with the
zoana
…
I'd probably do more harm than good and set the schedule back even farther.

“Foreman,” Horace said. “Tell your superiors I'm authorizing you to recruit every craftsman in the town to assist your effort. I want these walls finished in six days. Is that understood?”

The foreman bowed. “I will tell the guildsmen right away.”

As the crew returned to work, Horace continued to look around. He felt bad for them, especially the slaves, but he couldn't afford to be merciful right now. They needed this wall fixed right away.
After I figure out how to defend this town, I'll do something about the slaves.

He had no idea what that “something” might be, but he was serious about tackling the problem. If he was given a town like Sekhatun to rule as he saw fit, he could free the slaves and show Byleth how much better things could be.

He was dreaming of this plan when he noticed one of the workers walking past him carrying a stack of bricks. The man didn't look like the others in the chain gang. For one thing, he wasn't undernourished. He had the tall, lean body of a warrior. Horace also noticed the man didn't wear a collar, although he had scars around his neck suggesting he may have once been a slave. Thinking of Mezim, who had bought his freedom and risen high to a post in the royal palace, Horace addressed the man. “You, worker.”

The man stopped and turned with a hard look in his eyes.

“What's your name?” Horace asked.

When the man didn't respond, the nearest guard struck him across the back with a baton. “Answer his lordship!”

“Goram,” the man muttered. His voice was deep and surly.

The squad leader of the guards hurried over. “My apologies, Great Lord! This one has been nothing but trouble. I shall have him executed at once.”

Horace held out a hand to forestall the man. “No. That's not necessary. Why is he a prisoner?”

“I believe he was out past the curfew, Great Lord. He might have avoided a labor sentence, but he fought against the men who arrested him and hurt one of them very badly.”

It was a shame to have man like this in chains, fixing the walls when he should be manning them. Horace stepped closer and looked him in the eyes. “If I freed you, would you fight for this town?”

The man smiled. It wasn't a kindly grin. It was the sneer of a wolf right before it lunges for your throat. “I wouldn't fight for you if my life depended on it.”

The guard lifted his baton for another strike, but Horace shook his head. “All right. I respect that. But when a thousand blood-hungry rebels come over these walls, you might regret not facing them with a spear in your hands instead of those bricks.”