The Godspeaker Trilogy (188 page)

As they meandered their way in line to the market place he couldn't help looking back over his shoulder at Emperor Han's splendid vessel, still dominating the harbour. Admiring its sleek lines, its bold colours, he heard again Hettie's warning.

“Emperor Han is a mystery, Dex. His heart is a locked box and only he has the key to it…The witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai serve the emperor first and last and always. Remember that in your dealings with them.”

How he wished Rhian weren't mixed up with Han. How he wished Ethrea had no need of Tzhung-tzhungchai.

“Dexterity?” said Zandakar. “Something is wrong?”

Indeed something was: he couldn't seem to stop this plague of calamitous forebodings. He banged a fist on his knee, then made himself smile. “No. No. Just wool-gathering, Zandakar.”

A few minutes later he was too busy for frightening himself with imagined horrors, because it was time to set up his market stall. Pointed to their allotted space by a harbour official, they unloaded the wicker toy baskets – so much easier with two pairs of hands! – and saw Otto settled in his temporary stall. Then it was a matter of unpacking the toys, arranging them in a beguiling fashion…and waiting for the customers to arrive.

Kingseat's harbour markets were popular, and so were toys made by Dexterity Jones. He couldn't ask the same prices he'd asked of affluent nobles like Lady Dester, which was a pity, but he could ask enough so his labour wasn't valued at a pittance. A little over five hours after the markets opened all the toys were sold, and they were free to leave. But Zandakar seemed reluctant. From the moment they'd arrived at the harbour his attention was snared by it. Every chance he got, he stood and stared across it to the open ocean beyond its wide mouth.

“Dexterity,” he said as they gathered the emptied baskets. “We look more?”

“At the harbour?” he said, surprised. “Well…yes. I suppose. We can't see all of it, though. We don't have the authority. Why are you interested?”

“Mijak,” Zandakar said softly, so no-one standing close by could hear.

“Oh. Yes, all right,” he said. “For a little while.” He patted his moneybelt, tied tight around his middle. It was stuffed full of coins, satisfyingly heavy. Just to make sure, he buttoned his coat tight over it. “I want to look in on Otto first, though, make sure he's in clover. And remember, Zandakar: mouth shut. I'll do the talking if there's talking to be done.”

Otto was dozing, quite happy to be left alone. So they started by wandering through the busy market, slowly but surely inching their way closer and closer to the water's blue edge, as near to the working dock as regulations allowed. For a long time Zandakar brooded at the lapping wavelets, at the ambassadors' vessels and the moored trading ships and Kingseat's fishing fleet, waiting for the next turn of tide to sail out again. Then he stared behind him at the crowding township, hugging as close as it could to the harbour's scooped hem.

“What are you thinking, Zandakar?” Dexterity asked at last, made nervous all over again by the warrior's stern expression.

Zandakar stirred from his reverie. “I think if I am Mijak chotzu , how I take harbour. How Dimmi will take harbour.”

He shivered. Not would. Will . As though it were a foregone conclusion. As though Ethrea were defeated already. “And?”

Zandakar looked at him, his blue eyes bleak. “Ethrea harbour. How many?”

“Just the one. This one.” At Zandakar's surprise he added, “Of course there were many more before Rollin and the charter of trading nations. It was part of the agreement, you see. Each duchy was to stop trading on its own behalf and instead send all its produce and so forth here to be stored, then transported to its various destinations by hired outside vessels. The kingdom's permitted its fishing boats and a handful of other vessels for sanctioned business. The crown has one ship, the Queen Ilda . And a wall was built around the entire kingdom, cutting off the other ports and helping to keep us protected from pirates and marauders and suchlike ruffians. The trading nations do their part, too. They regularly patrol the waters around Ethrea as part of the trading charter.”

“Wall?” said Zandakar, frowning.

“Yes. Look.” Dexterity pointed over to the right. “See the headland, there? See the stone wall? If you climbed on top of that and started walking, provided you didn't fall off or drop dead from over-exertion or find yourself arrested, you'd eventually end up back here…but on the opposite side of the harbour.” He pointed again, to the left. “There, you see? The wall goes right round Ethrea, Zandakar. I believe we're the only entirely walled kingdom in the world. As part of their duties, the dukes maintain the section of wall that marks their sea-facing boundary. It's all very tidy. And it works remarkably well. I'm sure it will give Dmitrak great pause.”

Zandakar stared at him. “ Tcha . Stupid Dexterity. In dream you saw Dmitrak chalava-hagra ?” He clenched his fist and extended his arm, as though he wore a gold-and-red crystal gauntlet. “You think Ethrea stone wall stand?”

Dexterity felt his spirits plummet. No, of course it wouldn't. Not against the power Dmitrak commanded.

“If you were still the chalava-hagra , Zandakar, how would you defeat Ethrea?”

“Dimmi has boats now?” He shrugged. “Sail round Ethrea. Destroy wall. Send warriors into duchies. Duchy soldiers die quick. Duchy soldiers…” He spat on the ground. “ Tcha .”

Dexterity felt ill. I'm not a soldier, I have no knowledge of things military, but even I can see that makes perfect sense. Flood Ethrea with Mijaki warriors, crush the people in their duchies …“And then you'd sail into Kingseat harbour and destroy the town?”

Zandakar nodded. “ Zho .”

“Perhaps it won't be as easy as you think for your brother to conquer us,” he said, rallying. “There's the armada, remember? And if that fails, we'll have Emperor Han and his witch-men. We might even have soldiers from the other trading nations.”

Again, Zandakar stared. “Mijak has chalava. Chalava has chalava-haka and chalava-hagra. Chalava-hagra has chotzaka .”

He had to think for a minute, getting all the strange Mijaki words straight. God. Priests. God's hammer. Army. “How many, Zandakar? How many warriors of Mijak?”

He shrugged. “I think you say tens of thousands.”

God help us …“And can you think of a way to defeat them?”

Another shrug. A sigh. “I try, Dexterity.”

Chilled to the bone despite the bright sun and his buttoned jacket, Dexterity folded his arms and hugged his ribs tight. “Let's go home,” he said, subdued. Dispirited. “Unless there's anything else here you need to see?”

There wasn't. They hitched Otto to the donkey cart and made their slow way back to the cottage, winding through Kingseat township's narrow, crowded streets so Zandakar became at least a little familiar with the place.

Home again, Zandakar spent what remained of the afternoon dancing his hotas with a kitchen knife, in the back garden. After that he took care of Otto while Dexterity cooked a simple dinner of braised coney and beets. Night fell. With their meal eaten and the untidiness of dinner tidied away, they sat in companionable silence in the kitchen and whittled.

As the clock struck ten a wind sprang up inside the cottage…and Emperor Han's witch-man Sun-dao appeared.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

D
exterity leapt to his feet so fast his chair fell over and his whittling knife skittered out of his hand. Zandakar leapt up too but he didn't drop his knife. It was held before him, ready to strike.

Sun-dao looked at him. One extravagantly arched eyebrow lifted – and a cold wind lashed out, plucking the blade from Zandakar's grasp and flinging it to the other side of the kitchen. It hit the wall and dropped to the floor. The sound of its spinning was loud in the fraught silence.

Dexterity found his voice. “ Stop that ! I won't have your witch-man tricks in my home!”

Zandakar said nothing. If he was shaken by Sun-dao's action it didn't show on his face…but he was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to launch into his hotas even though his knife was gone. His eyes were as cold as splinters of deep winter ice.

Dexterity held out a warning hand. “Peace, Zandakar. Let's not do anything hasty.” He glared at Sun-dao. “What is the meaning of this? How dare you barge in here without so much as a by-your-leave!”

The witch-man Sun-dao bowed, his carmine-tipped fingers neatly clasped before him. The movement set his long bone-plaited moustaches to swinging. Head to toe he was dressed in black silk. The sumptuous fabric seemed to drink the kitchen's lamplight, giving it a kind of golden glow.

Or perhaps that was the Tzhung's sorcerous power.

“ Well ?” he demanded, thrusting aside the memories of their last encounter. “Are you going to stand there like a mute or are you going to answer me?”

Sun-dao's eyes were almond-shaped and black. Very little white showed. His amber skin was as smooth as a youth's, and his black hair was bound behind him. He was a good two handspans shorter than Emperor Han and much slighter of build. He looked almost frail, as though the winds he commanded could blow him away on a whim.

“Zandakar of Mijak,” he said. His voice was thin and reedy, flavoured with the mystery of Tzhung-tzhungchai. “You will meet with the emperor.”

“Why?” said Dexterity, before Zandakar could speak. “What does Han want with him?”

“That is not your concern,” said Sun-dao.

He shook his head. “Oh, it is. It's very much my concern. You see, I'm responsible for Zandakar. Her Majesty released him from the castle into my custody. Zandakar goes nowhere without me.”

“You?” Sun-dao frowned. “The emperor has no need of you.”

“Then we've nothing to discuss. You can go,” he retorted. “And don't you think to try any of your witch-man trickery, sir. Her Majesty would be most displeased…and I've the feeling your emperor doesn't wish to displease her.”

Sun-dao's red fingernails gleamed as his fingers tightened in annoyance. As a witch-man of Tzhung he must be more used to inspiring fear than defiance. “You will come to the emperor with Zandakar?”

“If you'll tell me what this is about…I'll consider it.”

“You wish to stop Mijak's scorpion god?” said Sun-dao, his reedy voice tight. “You will come with me to Emperor Han.”

Oh dear, oh dear. Dexterity hissed a breath between his teeth, then looked at Zandakar. “This might be important. I'll go. You stay here. If I don't return—”

“ No !” said Sun-dao. His voice cracked just a little, as though his store of patience was fast running dry, and a thin edge of air stirred in the kitchen. “Both of you will come. You will come now .”

Mouth dry, palms damp, Dexterity stared at Sun-dao. The man was a cipher, impossible to read. His face had less expression than a painted puppet. It would never surrender its secrets. You wish to stop Mijak's scorpion god? What kind of a question was that? Of course he wanted to stop Zandakar's chalava . They all wanted to stop it. But why this secrecy, why a mysterious witch-man in the night?

What does Han want of Zandakar that can't be talked of in daylight?

If they didn't go with Sun-dao, he'd never find out.

He looked at Zandakar. “I think we should go,” he said quietly. “Are you willing? If you're not, then we won't.”

Instead of answering, Zandakar rested his cold blue gaze on the witch-man. He'd taken off the Dev'kareshi headwrap. In the warm kitchen lamplight his blue hair glowed, so strange.

“This man. This Dexterity,” he said. His voice was harsh. “My… friend . He is good man. You say here this Dexterity safe? You say here this emperor wei harm?”

Sun-dao's dark eyes glinted with a reluctant respect. “I say.”

Zandakar nodded. “Tcha. We go.” Then he smiled, a feral, brutal baring of teeth. “Sun-dao witch-man. You lie, I kill. Zho?”

Sun-dao laughed, and clapped his hands.

A great wind sprang up. The kitchen lamps blew out. Dexterity shouted as he felt the cottage dissolve around him, as he felt his own flesh and blood stream into tatters leaving only his thoughts intact.

He couldn't tell if he was wrapped in silence or if the sound was so loud it had rendered him deaf. He was hot and cold, standing still and racing. His eyes were open but he couldn't see, as helplessly blind as a newborn kitten. Time stopped, or was sped so fast it no longer had meaning.

This is madness. Madness. Oh please, Hettie, help!

And then he was whole again, his tattered body re-formed. He could hear. He could see. He was alive, and unharmed.

“Welcome, Mister Jones,” said a cool, familiar voice.

Emperor Han. He sat upon a magnificent gold and gemstone throne that was fashioned like some amazing beast out of legend. Not a dragon, not a bird, not a lion or a gryphon, but a strange blending of these animals that defied a simple name. A beaked, maned head reared above him, the eyes great orbs of facet-cut emerald. Its claws, which formed the throne's arm-rests, were a deep purple stone. Not amethyst but something like it, with a red and violent heart. The throne rested upon a thick coiled tail of gold encrusted with diamond scales. Two scaled and feathered wings spread wide behind him.

Dexterity shuddered. It looked like a creature born of a brain-fever, or madness. Instead of answering Han he looked for Zandakar. The warrior stood an arm's length distant, just as dazed. There was no sign of Sun-dao.

“You're all right, Zandakar?”

Zandakar nodded. “ Zho . You?”

“A trifle wind-blown, but unharmed,” he said, then stared at their new surroundings. A small chamber, with lacquered pale golden wood-panelled walls and no windows. Instead it was hung with magnificent silk tapestries depicting snow-capped mountains, wooded glens, tumbling rivers and bright-plumed birds in flight. Scenes from Tzhung-tzhungchai, most like. The floor was black marble, veined in red and gold. Warm light came from scores of tapered white candles, standing tall in iron holders like soldiers on guard. The chamber's still air was gently scented, perfumed with something exotic and unknown. This must be the Tzhung ambassador's residence. Surely they'd not been whisked to Tzhung-tzhungchai…