The Godspeaker Trilogy (205 page)

“Are you Mijak's empress? I think you are not! I think you do not say who leaves Jatharuj and who stays!”

Hate and anger burned in Dmitrak's eyes. “He spoke against the god in the world! What is that if not corruption?”

“ Tcha ! You are stupid ,” she spat, fighting the urge to plunge her snakeblade in his heart. “I have known Vortka since I was a child. He is a soft man, a loving man, he is not corrupt . He has served the god in ways you will never know, Dmitrak. He has served the god so well, he is the only soft man it will not kill. The god will not kill him, he lives in its eye.”

A thread of blood trickled from Dmitrak's mouth. “Are you a godspeaker, that you can know that?”

“ I am more than a godspeaker !” she shouted. “ I am the god's empress !”

Dmitrak dropped to his knees, at last he saw his true danger. “You are its empress,” he whispered. “You are in the god's eye.”

The scorpion amulet around her neck was pulsing, its fury pulsed in her and its lust for blood. Aieee, the god see her, she wanted to feed its fury with Dmitrak's blood. She wanted to see him dead, like Abajai and Yagji.

I cannot kill Dmitrak, he is the warlord. He is the god's hammer. Until I find Zandakar, the god needs him in the world.

“Forgive me, Empress,” said Dmitrak, still on his knees. “When Vortka spoke against the god in the world I believed he was an enemy. I thought you believed it, too.”

She did not like to say it, but he was not wrong. When Vortka had said those things she was angry. She thought he betrayed her. She thought his softness had gone too far. When he said those things she found herself with Dmitrak, against Vortka.

Do I like to stand against Vortka, with Dmitrak? I think I do not. I will not do it again.

Dmitrak pressed his fist against his breast. “You are the empress. I am your warlord. How do I serve you if I do not speak my truth?”

Tcha, the god see her, she could not smite him for that. “Get up,” she told him. “You speak your truth, you serve your empress. You do not know Vortka. Do not call him corrupt. You were there when he gave the god blood from those slaves. So much blood he gave the god, he is not corrupt . He has a soft heart, that is my business, not yours.”

Dmitrak stood, his eyes were wary. “He will sail with the warhost?”

“Tcha. Of course he will sail,” she said, and let her gaze sweep across the warships of Mijak. “He wil sail when we sail, we will sail in three highsuns. You are the warlord, you will see this done.”

“Empress,” said Dmitrak.

“Leave me now, warlord. You have much work to do, and I would speak with the god.”

Dmitrak left her, she was not sorry to be alone. She walked the length and breadth of her warship, she cut her arm with her snakeblade and gave the godpost mast her blood. She went beneath the deck to see the place where she would sleep, it was small and dark, she preferred the warship's deck. She sat on the deck and let the sun warm her skin.

I will sleep on the deck when we are at sea. I will sleep on the deck beneath the godmoon and his wife, I will sleep beneath the stars as we sail towards Ethrea, and when we reach Ethrea I will flood it with blood.

“Well, Jones,” said Ursa. “I've looked long and hard but I can't find anything amiss with you. Whatever that Tzhung witch-man got up to, however it was he spirited you across miles and miles of ocean in an eye-blink and back again, it doesn't seem to have left a mark on you.”

“Didn't I say?” said Dexterity, perched on the edge of his castle chamber bed. “I'm fine.”

She was frowning, uneasy. “Yes. Aside from that burn, Jones, you've not a mark on you. Which is more than I can say for that heathen Zandakar.”

“You've seen Zandakar already? So early?”

Ursa pulled a face. “You expected me to dilly-dally at home when the queen's sending me urgent messages at first light?”

Dexterity got up and crossed to his chamber window to stare down into the gardens below, where a solitary Rhian still walked. She'd been prowling the flowerbeds for nearly an hour now. Such a slight figure. So painfully alone. She was dressed yet again in her battered huntsman's leathers, as though she'd misplaced every last pretty gown.

“No.” He leaned against the wall beside the window. “I suppose not. He's all right too, is he?”

“Fine as figs,” said Ursa. “Aside from those scarlet welts I don't recall him having before you went to Icthia. You can tell me how he got them while I'm physicking your hand.”

He considered his scabby, crusted wound. Remembering Zandakar's searing blue fire, he shivered. “It's not so bad, Ursa. A dab of ointment should put me right.”

“A dab of ointment?” she echoed. “I see. Turned physick in your old age, have you, Jones?”

“No, but—”

“I think we'll leave it at no ,” she snapped. “ A dab of ointment . A soaking in tinctured hiffa leaf and some ointment and a bandage is what your hand needs, Jones, and then perhaps you'll be on the mend. You were a fool not to come to me with it last night.”

He shrugged. “Emperor Han's palanquin brought us directly back to the castle. It was too late to go traipsing to your cottage. I'm hardly dying. Don't make such a fuss.”

“Tcha,” she said, rummaging in her capacious physick bag. “I'll remind you of that next time you come bleating for a foot plaster. Now, about those welts…”

“Didn't Zandakar tell you?”

She snorted. “Would I be asking you if he had? He can play as dumb as a stone when the mood takes him, that young man.”

Instead of answering, he continued to stare down into the gardens where Rhian still prowled, and touched his fingertips to the thick glass. She was so far below him it was like stroking her hair.

I worry for her. I worry for Alasdair. His face last night, when she looked at Zandakar, near broke my heart.

“What are you sighing about now, Jones?” said Ursa.

“Nothing,” he replied, turning. Then added, seeing her raised eyebrows, “Well. Nothing I can help. Rhian and the king will just have to work things out themselves, I fear.”

She didn't pretend not to understand. “No marriage is easy, even when you're mad in love. And that's before you touch on small matters like invading armies and heathen witch-men and pride and disappointment and – and—” She sniffed, hard. “Other people.”

“Zandakar may love her, Ursa, but nothing will come of it. It can't.”

“Not even if she loves him? I'm not blind either, Jones. I've seen…the looks.”

“She loves the king,” he said stubbornly. “I'd stake my life on it, Ursa.”

“Oh, Jones . A woman can love more than once, and at the same time. Just like a man.”

“She loves the king,” he insisted. “And she would never betray the crown.”

“Did I say she would?” said Ursa. “But so long as Zandakar remains in Ethrea, he's a thorn in all our sides. He stirs up things best left unstirred. It's hard enough already, Alasdair has to defer to his wife. But when his wife's got a man in love with her who looks like Zandakar, well .” She sighed. “Let's just say there's more than one reason I'll be pleased when we've trounced those Mijaki heathen all the way back home.”

Gloomy, he stared at her. “You're assuming we'll beat them.”

“Yes, I am, Jones,” said Ursa. “We're not going to lose, we've God on our side. Now sit down, so I can tend your hand and you can tell me how Zandakar got those welts!”

As he perched once more on the edge of his bed, Ursa settled on the chamber's stool before him. Taking his hurt hand gently she lifted it, turning it towards the light from the window. After a closer examination than her earlier, cursory look, she glanced up, her eyes sharp. “How did you do this? And don't say you spilled hot lamp oil, Jones, because I've seen more lamp oil burns than you've strung puppets. No lamp oil did this.”

“If I explain,” he said, after a moment, “you must swear to tell no-one else.”

That earned him a scorching glare. “Dexterity Jones, if you think after all we've been through that I'm not to be trusted , well—”

“Oh, don't be silly, you know I don't think that. But I have to say it aloud. For my own sake, I have to say it.”

“All right, Jones,” she said slowly. “No need for a tizzy. I'll not repeat your words, you've my solemn physick's vow.”

Which she'd die before breaking. So he told her of the ugly scorpion knife and the blue fire and how Zandakar had wielded them both.

“You think that's why he's been sent to us?” said Ursa, when he was done. “Because he's got the power to fight his brother, fire with fire?”

“I think that's part of it, Ursa. It must be.”

She'd finished cleaning his wound with the stinging tincture. Now she dabbed it dry with a clean cloth. “Those welts on Zandakar aren't burn scars, Jones.”

Dexterity shook his head. “No.” Remembering, a shudder ran through him. The stone scorpion. Zandakar's screams. “I tell you, Ursa, after what I saw in Icthia – Zandakar's as strange as any Tzhung witch-man. After what I saw, I'm not even certain he's entirely human.”

“Not human ?” said Ursa. “Nonsense!”

Leaning forward, he rested his good hand on her knee. “Ursa, I'm serious.”

“Yes,” she said, much more kindly. “I can see you are.” She reached for her jar of ointment. “So tell me the rest of it, and I'll decide for myself.”

It was a relief, unburdening himself of those terrifying memories. How a carved stone scorpion had come to life and stung Zandakar, and how he'd voided its poisons from his body and not died.

When he was finished, Ursa stared at him, a rolled-up linen bandage dangling unheeded from her fingers. “If I didn't know you for an honest, sober man, I'd call you a drunk liar, Jones.”

He shuddered again. “Oh, Ursa, it was dreadful. How is it possible? Stone creatures can't come to life!”

“And neither can men walk invisible through the streets, but you said that witch-man hid you in the wind ,” she retorted. “And then there's you, isn't there? Willy-nilly bursting into flames. Convincing that priest Vortka to side with us. I wouldn't call that usual .” Swiftly she bandaged his hand, and pinned it secure. “There now. Keep it wrapped and don't get it wet. I'll look at it again the day after tomorrow.”

“All right. Ursa—”

“Jones, I don't know what to make of it. We'll just have to have faith, won't we, that whatever Zandakar is, whatever he can do, it's with God's blessing.”

“If that's the case, why do you still call him a heathen?”

She grimaced. “Because he is a heathen, Jones. But that's not to say he can't have his uses.”

Though he was so unsettled, and his hand pained him again, he laughed. “Oh, Ursa .”

Her lips twitched, but she repressed the smile and stood. “I've a colicky baby to visit. Tell Her Majesty you and Zandakar are fine, and I'll see her myself this afternoon. In the meantime, if that hand pains you out of the ordinary come find me at once.”

He kissed her cheek. “I will, Ursa. Thank you.”

They left his chamber together but then parted company, and he made his way down to the privy garden, and Rhian. She was standing in her favourite place at the edge of the castle grounds. From there it was possible to see all of Kingseat township and harbour, out across the restless ocean to the distant horizon. Hearing his approach, she turned. The scratched and salt-stained leathers she wore creaked, complaining.

“Morning, Your Majesty,” he greeted her. “Ursa's regrets, but she's seeing a sick baby that couldn't wait. I'm to tell you Zandakar's fine, and so am I.”

“Your burned hand?”

“Oh, it's more singed than burned,” he said, sounding far more cheerful than he felt. “Don't fret. I'll mend.”

Rhian's strained expression eased. “I'm pleased to hear it. How can I help you?”

“Majesty, I serve at your pleasure.”

She swung round to stare at the harbour and ocean again. “I fear there's precious little pleasure in it, Dexterity.”

She sounded brittle, and who could blame her? If they were still on the road he might have risked a comforting touch, but this was Kingseat, and she was the queen.

“How is His Majesty, this morning?”

She shrugged. “Well enough. He's arranging a council meeting at the moment. My husband's a prodigious organiser, Dexterity. His eye for detail surpasses that of my father, and I'd not thought ever to say such a thing.”

“Then it's a blessing we have him.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “It seems I'm surrounded by useful men.”

Behind her back, Dexterity pulled a face. Useful men who plague you, and chafe at your authority . But he didn't say it. The observation might be counted impertinent.

“For example, that Zandakar,” she continued. “Does he not daily prove to be a man of surprises?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said carefully. “God knew what he was doing when he sent Zandakar to us.”

“Did he? I wonder.”

Dexterity hesitated, then joined Rhian in staring at the sun-dappled harbour, where the official skiffs darted about their business.

“When you've a moment to think of it, you should ask Zandakar about protecting our port from Mijak,” he said. “When he and I were at the markets, he had some things to say.”

In profile, Rhian's face was pale, her expression remote. “Frightening things, I've no doubt.”

“Very. Although…perhaps there'll be no need.”

She glanced at him. “The armada?”

“As you say. It's likely our best hope.”

“If I can make it happen.”

“You sounded confident enough last night.”

“Did I?” she said, with another sideways glance. “You don't think I sounded…frightened?”

“Not at all,” he said, startled. “I was amazed by your courage and self-possession.”

“Really?” Her lips quirked in a very small, brief smile. “I was terrified.”

Dexterity realised then she didn't need a formal courtier wrapped up in protocol, she needed a shoulder to lean on. She needed her toymaker. “If that's true, Rhian, I'm amazed all over again. And I doubt I was the only one. I think the emperor was most impressed.”

“Han,” she said, and now her voice was much darker. “Like Sun-dao, a witch-man.”

He considered that. “A friend also, I think. His methods might be high-handed and his attitude arrogant beyond bearing, but he has helped us. And we need him.”