The New World (41 page)

Ciras watched him go, distantly remembering a dream in Voraxan where a nephew had similarly run off. He almost reversed his decision and sought a horse—a
real
horse, not some mechanical mount. He could ride to the coast and get a ship to Tirat. He could join his family and spend time with them.

And then die in front of them when Nelesquin comes for Tirat
.

“Master Dejote, I’m glad I found you.”

Ciras stood, pulling the cloak around himself. “Master Gryst, good to see you again.”

“And you, Ciras.” Borosan frowned. “I was wondering if I could ask your help in something.”

One of the
gyanrigot
foot soldiers had accompanied the inventor, and the silence with which it moved had not betrayed its approach. It had taken on even more of the shape of a man, with decorated armor plates covering gears and hiding command-slates. The thing even wore a battle mask—far too slender ever to hide a real face, but impressive and haunting despite that.

Ciras smiled. “I see you have made great progress with your machines. I fear I will be of little use to you, however.”

“No, you’re the perfect person.” Borosan nodded toward the other side of the river. “I have collected reports about the big
gyanrigot
. They have warriors inside them, guiding them like you do with the mounts, only more direct. They use thoughts the way you use the pressure of your knees.”

“It makes for formidable armor.” Ciras shrugged. “I doubt they are putting their halt and lame in the suits.”

“Probably not. What I want, what I need, is some measurements.”

“Of?”

“Your arm.”

Ciras’ eyes narrowed. “My arm?”

“Yes, I think I have a way to fashion a substitute arm for you. It would work just like your real arm.”

“My arm?” Ciras staggered back against the wall. “You would replace my arm with a
gyanrigot
device?”

“Yes, exactly. You would be able to fight again.”

Ciras turned away and hugged his half arm to his chest tightly. “No, Master Gryst. Ninety-nine times no. I have respected you. I have tried to understand you. I even have achieved an appreciation for your machines, but I will
not
become one of them.”

“No, Ciras, it is not like that . . . ”

“Yes, it is!” Ciras turned back and threw the cloak off. He slipped his robe down, thrusting it aside with his cloth-swaddled stump. “You mock me, sir, in a most horrible way.”

“No, Ciras . . . ”

“You know not the depth of the insult you have paid me.” Ciras shook his head adamantly. “Leave me, Master Gryst. It is out of respect for all you have done that I do not challenge you to a duel. Trouble me no further with your artificial warriors. I may be half a man, but I am still a
man
! And I won’t let you take that away from me.”

Chapter 45

D
eciding how he would get to the barge turned out to be the most difficult choice about the meeting for Nelesquin. The Naleni ministers had agreed immediately on the size of the barge and how it should be anchored in the middle. They proved most agreeable on details about the boats that would carry the delegations. They even allowed that no one would bring weapons, but that his golden armor would not be ruled a weapon.

Their concession on so many minor points meant that the north accepted their cause as lost. Cyrsa and Virisken could not have forgotten that, as a
xingnadin
, he was capable of killing them. That such exertion was momentarily beyond him was something they did not need to know. He’d gone so far as to make a great show of sparring with some
kwajiin
while keeping the northern ministers waiting. He’d done so to impress them with his strength, but he ended up enjoying the fights and continued the training even after the negotiations had been concluded.

It was remotely possible that Virisken would try to secrete a sword on the barge and kill him. That would surprise everyone—especially when Nelesquin didn’t die. To preclude that happening, Nelesquin had insisted that everyone be attired in formal robes which, with their oversized sleeves and long hems, hampered anything but the most slothful movements.

And this, then, was the source of his problem. He could easily use magic to float himself down, but if he had one of his spells, he’d land in the river. Soul or no, he’d die of embarrassment. Stairs were out of the question, even if they were carpeted. One misstep would have the same result. Ramps were only slightly better, but were too common and hardly suited to someone of his stature. His manner of conveyance demanded elegance yet needed to display his power.

So plans were made, and even though the day started cold, with grey clouds hovering just above the Dragon Bridge’s arches, no one present could possibly question his supremacy. Four of the
dari
bears bore an open palanquin upon which the Prince sat. He wore robes of red with the Erumvirine bear in white, rampant, crowned in gold. The same design had been worked on the chair, though white had surrendered to silver and gems sparkled from the points of the crown. The Durrani carrying the palanquin had drilled endlessly to keep it level at all times, which they did throughout his transit to the river.

South Moriande was not completely under Nelesquin’s power. Durrani warriors thronged to his route, and more lurked behind closed windows. The three routes to the river had been swept and occupied—the Prince used his scrying stones to choose the final route at the last minute.

The cast of the stones had not been particularly auspicious, but did not hint at anything as dire as assassination. The most generous reading suggested the negotiations would be difficult, but that was to be expected. The Empress would offer little and demand much. It would avail her nothing, for Nelesquin was not of a mind to concede her anything.

Nelesquin actually expected nothing from the negotiation. In offering to meet, he merely wanted to show the citizens of North Moriande that he had
tried
to save them. With the full might of his
dari
armor arrayed in ranks on the River Road, his victory would be obvious and inevitable. Given the chance, the forces in the north would revolt and turn that half of the city over to him. In fact, negotiations with dissident elements had already begun.

As his palanquin passed by, troops melted into the city to quell any unrest that might arise while he was on the river. The last thing he wanted was to see a group of misguided peasants attack his soldiers. He required complete peace in South Moriande and the Durrani would see to it.

The procession arrived at the River Road. Nelesquin did nothing to suppress a smile. His troops had arrayed themselves in good order, in twelve companies of one hundred. Nelesquin had decided to modify the standard organization of nines. One each of the legions still honored the gods, but the tenth, the bears, honored him.

The bears bore his platform to the edge of the river. Two more bears stood at river’s edge, holding long poles fitted with block and tackle. Ropes suspended a platform over the river. Two more bears were poised to turn the capstan to play the rope out.

Nelesquin stepped onto a platform inside the river wall, then onto the suspended platform. Kaerinus, wearing formal robes of black and green decorated with his butterflies, stood back and to the Prince’s left. Qiro Anturasi, wearing gold with purple bears on it, took up a position at the other aft corner. Slowly, and without a hint of sway, the platform descended.

Nelesquin suppressed a smile as he stepped onto the flatboat. Cyrsa waited for him on the barge. She wore purple, trimmed in red. Four circles of varying size trapped within a larger one formed her crest. It represented the sun, the world, and all three moons, proclaiming her Empress of everything. It was a bold choice, and he did admire the tiny woman for making it.

Virisken wore a black robe, trimmed in orange, with a gold crown embroidered beneath the hunting tiger. Though he had seen his half brother at Tsatol Deraelkun, it had been from a distance. He appeared to have weathered the years well but had lost the edge to his glare. The years had sapped something from him.

Prince Cyron occupied the third position on the barge. He wore purple robes trimmed in gold and wore the Naleni crest as his own. An Imperial crown had been added to it. Save for the emptiness of his left sleeve, Cyron would have been a handsome figure, and Nelesquin might have been inclined to keep him much as he had Prince Jekusmirwyn. He might yet consider it if Cyron gave good counsel.

What Nelesquin had not quite expected was the density of the crowd on the river’s northern side. People of every stripe had crowded together and even pushed their way onto the Dragon Bridge. They huddled in windows and lined rooftops. The northern breeze tugged at a few banners—either old Naleni flags or family crests. While he did get some sense of their anxiety, he caught no hint of surrender.

No matter. They will learn
.

The flatboat bumped against the barge. Durrani boatmen steadied it. The Prince disembarked and crossed to his position at the barge’s heart. Little more than a wooden stage linking two flatboats, it had been covered in rice mats and red carpeting ringed with purple. To Nelesquin’s amusement, Qiro stepped onto it with no hesitation, while Kaerinus employed magic to float a handspan above it.

Nelesquin bowed to Cyrsa for a respectful amount of time, though the bow could have been deeper. Cyrsa returned the gesture, but the duration again seemed a bit short. Doubtless some minister of Protocol could tell him that she held it long enough to honor a prince or a master potter, but not the Emperor. A transgression, yes, but one he was inclined to let slip, since she had many more for which she would pay fully.

The two of them settled to their knees and smoothed their robes. Their courtiers remained standing.

“We are pleased, Prince Nelesquin, that you have come today.”

“You have forgotten, Cyrsa, that I invited you. You have come to me.”

She smiled. “We six know this, but to the people watching,
you
came to
me
.”

Nelesquin chuckled. “Still full of games. And deceit. You deceived my father.”

“No, I
murdered
your father. I did so to save the Empire.”

“Had you succeeded, we would not be here now.”

“And had
you
succeeded, Nelesquin, there would be nothing here now.”

“More games.” Nelesquin shook his head. “I am not here to play games, whore. There are many things that should be evident. I look past your shoulder and I see people. If you look past mine, you see the machines that will kill those people. You cannot stop the conquest of Moriande. The only hope these people have is for you to surrender.”

“Toward what end?” She glanced up at the bridge arching above them. “Will you crucify me at its highest point?”

“I might have to, to make a point. My preference is to strangle you with my own hands.”

Cyrsa’s voice shrank to a whisper. “If death at your hands is my destiny, what do I care if others suffer?”

“I can ensure
you
will
not
suffer.”

She laughed. The sound raked claws over his flesh.

“You have forgotten my talent, Nelesquin. I will never suffer.” Her expression hardened. “If you brought us here to trade insults, you have wasted your time.”

“That was not why I brought you here.” Nelesquin stood in one flowing motion and opened his arms. “People of Moriande, I am the Emperor Nelesquin. I have reunited the Empire. I have restored the order lost when this woman murdered my father and usurped his throne. I now offer you that which she denies you: a chance at life. You see my army. You see my war machines. You know the havoc they have wrought. They shall only come north if you support her. She offers death. I offer life and, beyond that, riches and glory. It is yours if you will but hail me as your rightful ruler.”

Hoots and hollers, jeers and other rude noises began sporadically, then built. People laughed at him. Stones and half-gnawed food splashed in the river. People began to chant all manner of discordant things, but it quickly resolved itself into pulsed shouts of “Never the bear, never the bear.”

Cyrsa looked up at him. “Had you expected a different outcome?”

“No. This was exactly what I expected.” He raised a finger and brought it down again.

The
dari
rams marched forward, turned left, then sprinted toward the end of the bridge. They reached the footing and tore apart the barricades. Ballistae shot, but most of the bolts rattled harmlessly off their metal hides. Men shouted orders and reloaded, waiting.

The rams remained on the south bank, having pulled back after clearing the path. They could have easily reached the next line of defense, and the one after that. They could have burst free and killed thousands.

And the crowd knew it. People screamed and fled. A few pitched over the bridge’s side and plunged into the river. People vanished from windows, pulling shutters closed. At least one man tumbled from a rooftop. The milling mob hampered the arrival of a company of Naleni Dragons.

Nelesquin’s eyes narrowed. “There, Cyrsa, now your people know what awaits them. You do, too. You could take that bridge down, but I would just ford the river and lay siege from the north. If you want me to be generous, now is the time to speak, because when I leave this barge, we will speak no more.”

Before she could reply, a man on the bridge shouted down at them. “No! You shall not win. I shall not allow it.”

Nelesquin looked up. The man stood on the bridge’s railing. Two soldiers tugged at his legs to pull him back, but they might as well have been trying to shift stone.

Qiro and Cyron both shouted at the same time. “Keles, get down!” The Prince begged, the grandfather commanded, but each had the same luck as the soldiers.

“You’ve destroyed too much. No more.”

Keles bared a silver blade with a flick of his wrist. The scabbard spun through the air like a falling autumn leaf. He stroked the knife over his left wrist. His hand tightened. Blood spurted.