Death By Derby 8 (Josiah Reynolds Mysteries) (17 page)

A
ga Zoar woke up with a terrible thirst.

He rolled over onto his current wife, who was nursing their latest child.

She cursed him for his clumsiness as she pushed him away.

Looking about for some wine or even water and finding none, he rolled back to his wife, took her free breast in his mouth and began to suckle.

His Queen slapped his face and kicked him, ranting at the Zoar in a language he had never bothered to learn. She made gestures usually not demonstrated by a highborn woman before leaving with the baby in a huff.

Zoar rubbed his stinging face, wondering what she had said to him. He did not doubt for one moment that it was not polite. Still, it would be nice to know what she said occasionally. He was just too lazy to learn her language and she hated him enough not to learn his.

After killing his Queen’s family and torching her small mountain village, he had gathered her upon his horse while she kicked and screamed as they rode away. And she hadn’t stopped screaming at him since.

Zoar thought that perhaps he should be nicer to her.

His Queen had given him three children including Prince Dorak, his heir, who was beautiful like his mother and intelligent.

Zoar was very pleased with his first-born son.

He pondered on his pretty young wife. He was sorry that her family had been killed, but that was the way of war. It was nothing personal. It was just business.

Zoar climbed off the bed and pulled on his pants and woven tunic. At the clapping of his hands, a servant girl entered with a tray holding a bowl of warm water and hand towels. The Aga washed his face and hands and sat back in a high leather chair as the young girl braided his black hair, trimmed his beard and cleaned his nails. Her hands trembled a bit.

Other servants entered carrying food and drink. After placing the trays on the dining rug, they went off to the side, kowtowing and awaiting further instructions.

Standing silently behind the leather chair was KiKu, Zoar’s advisor and spymaster. He was a tall, dark man with tattoos on his hands and face. KiKu waited patiently.

Zoar was suspicious that KiKu thought himself better than Zoar, as KiKu had been born a prince while Zoar had risen through the ranks of his army. This irritated Zoar more than just a little.

Tired of waiting, KiKu coughed softly.

“What is it?” asked Zoar gruffly.

“Aga, I bring reports of a fog barrier to the west of us.” KiKu’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“And?”

“I believe that there is land beyond the mist. It is not the end of the world as we believed. The fog is not a natural phenomenon. I believe it to be a defensive screen.”

Zoar pulled at his beard. “How is it made? With magic?”

“We’re not sure. Information is still coming in.” KiKu stepped forward. His bald head gleamed in the smoking torchlight. “Great Aga, I have studied various reports over several months now and I find them to be of great interest.”

KiKu shifted his weight. He wondered how to make this barbaric king understand that there may be something wonderful to be discovered beyond the mist. How did one give another the gift of imagination?

“Do they concern gold?”

KiKu’s heart sank. “Eh, no, Great Aga.”

“Humph,” added Zoar before sucking on a peach.

“Something maybe better than gold,” KiKu added quickly. “I’ve had all the ancient records and maps studied. Prior to six hundred years ago, there are records of a country called Hasan Daeg at war with the Cameroons. They lost the war and receded within their borders for good. After that, this fog appeared and no one has seen anyone from Hasan Daeg again. After a while the country was just forgotten and became the stuff of myths.”

“How can you forget about a country’s existence?”

“This fog or mist produces a hypnotic effect as one tries to penetrate it. It makes one forget why he wanted to go into the fog. I have gathered many reports of travelers, vagabonds and merchants entering the fog only to wake up several days later with a terrible headache, but with food and water beside them. For whatever reason, they never try to enter the fog again. They are not afraid. They simply don’t want to.”

Zoar thought hard. A fog that makes one lose heart. “I can see you are excited. There must be more, and I love a good story. You will make this a good story, won’t you, KiKu?” purred Zoar. He watched KiKu blink.

KiKu blinked only when he was nervous. Otherwise, his eyes never closed, but remained large black pupils forever watching. Even when he killed, he never blinked.

Zoar had once watched him rip out a man’s apple bob with just two fingers. It had only taken a second. That’s because Kiku had liked the man. If KiKu didn’t like a person, he could make that person suffer a long time. A very long time.

“Aga, Hasan Daeg is a culture older than two thousand years according to the oldest records.”

“What of it? I’ve conquered countries older than that.”

KiKu’s guts twitched. How very well he knew. His country had been one of them. “But this is a two-thousand-year-old state rumored to still exist which has had only seven queens and two kings.”

“You mean they have lived in anarchy much of the time?”

“No, Aga,”

“The place is run by priests?” Zoar loved baiting KiKu. He enjoyed the spy lord’s humiliation. It tasted sweet.

“No, Aga,”

“I grow weary with your impudence,” growled Zoar, throwing his peach pit at KiKu. “Be quick with your tongue or I’ll feed it to the dogs!”

KiKu sighed inwardly. “The people of this land have been ruled by the same family for over two thousand years, each ruler succeeding by right of ascendance from the last in an orderly and calm fashion. From my accounts, which are from both written and oral sources, the rulers of Hasan Daeg live to be an average of three hundred eighty years old, ascending the throne when they are about forty. They abdicate around the age of three hundred forty, forty years after they have borne their only child. They then go live in the woods to meditate and wait for their impending death.” KiKu stopped. He wanted his words to leave a strong impression.

Zoar stared at him for a long time. Finally, he murmured, “Let me understand this. You are telling me that there is a country to the west of us that no one has seen in the last six hundred years, where the rulers live to be almost four hundred years old, and in two thousand years, they have had only nine rulers.”

“Yes, Aga, it is a great mystery.”

“If it is a mystery, how do you know your sources to be true?”

“Because one of my men penetrated the mist barrier.”

The Aga leaned forward. KiKu now held his interest. “How did he manage that?”

“A year ago I sent twelve men to explore this region. All but one returned with strange tales, but none of them had actually been inside Hasan Daeg. Only one man returned, having been in this land several weeks ago. He had traveled the outskirts of the mist always going southwest. At the southernmost region of the country, there is a corridor in the wall where one can enter freely as long as one is a Sivan. My man dressed as a Sivan merchant. He brought back not only wondrous tales, but plant specimens and water samples.”

“What was so important about plants and the water?”

“The plants sing. I know it sounds impossible, but I’ve heard it myself.”

“Bring me such a plant. I would hear a plant sing.”

KiKu dropped his head. “Alas, Great Aga, I cannot. We did not know the proper way to care for the plants and they died.”

“How unfortunate for the plants and perhaps for you,” rasped Zoar. He grabbed a knife off the breakfast tray and began peeling an apple. “What else?”

“The Hasan Daegians do not venture outside their own borders. Their economy is an agricultural one. They make items such as hemp ropes, perfumes, oils, cooking herbs, teas, but they are most famous for their herbal medicines, especially those used by women. They even make a medicine from a fungus that stops infections in the body.”

Zoar carefully cut the apple into even slices. “I have never heard of this Hasan Daeg, even as a myth.”

KiKu looked defeated as he now regretted mentioning this report. He could have escaped and made his way to Hasan Daeg and Zoar would never have been able to find him. KiKu now realized how foolish he had been to reveal these treasured secrets.

Only a great mind could fathom Hasan Daeg and what it could mean to the world. A great mind, like his own, and not this buffoon lounging before him, but KiKu plunged on.

“Aga, the desert men of Siva front for Hasan Daeg. For six hundred years, the Sivans have acted as middlemen for them, taking their goods at the southern border and trading in the Sivan name.”

KiKu could see that Zoar’s face was starting to turn red. This was not a good sign.

“You said there had been seven queens and only two kings.”

“Their society is a matriarchal one. The blood line runs through the women.”

Zoar looked truly baffled. “But that goes against nature. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

KiKu did not remind Zoar that his own society had been matriarchal before Zoar had scattered the Hittal nobility to the four corners of the earth. KiKu shrugged.

“How do you explain the rulers’ longevity?”

“My spies cannot answer that question, but there is an ancient tale that the first of the Hasan Daegian Queens made a pact with a plant that needed a host in which to live.” KiKu felt strained.

Couldn’t Zoar see that he was handing him something more important than gold or land for conquest? KiKu was talking about life extremely long-lived. If they could get their hands on the secret they could live four hundred years or more. Perhaps forever! This was information worth granting a slave his freedom. His heart raced at the thought of being free.

Zoar was enraged. KiKu was feeding him horse dung. A plant indeed! “I need to pay my soldiers. I need land to give my governors. A populace to govern. Slaves, minerals, gold. I don’t need a bunch of old ladies growing pretty flowers. Does this country have anything else to offer?”

“No, Aga, nothing but health and long life.” KiKu would not get his freedom now. He realized belatedly that a sneer was in his voice.

The Aga jumped up and grabbed KiKu’s delicate embroidered silver robe. “Take care. You try my patience. I’ve got a world to conquer and I don’t need silly fools like you daydreaming about singing plants and old hags that rule an imaginary kingdom.” Zoar pulled KiKu effortlessly toward him.

KiKu knew it would be futile to attempt anything like killing Zoar. He would be dead before he could raise his arm. Zoar’s personal guards stood attentively around them and, since they regarded KiKu and the rest of his spies as not worthy of spit, would have been only too glad to put a spear through KiKu’s neck.

“I need facts,” Zoar spat. “Hard, plain facts. Just the plain truth like how many troops, the nature of the terrain, the weather, things like that.” He pushed KiKu to the floor. “What do you give me?” Zoar roared. “Fairy tales. Nothing but little children’s bedtime stories!”

KiKu kowtowed. “Master, Master, forgive me. I thought you would be interested. All of your subjects adore you. We want you to live forever!”

The Aga gave him a vicious kick. “All of my subjects fear and hate me, you piece of borax feces. I am the Great Aga. I have subjected many peoples to do my bidding. And with all those millions I have an addle-brained ninny like you in charge of my spy network. Get out of here! Get out before I cut your liver out myself!” screamed Zoar, kicking KiKu.

KiKu, a once-proud prince, now a slave to the Aga, crawled out of the tent, grunting with each blow.

The Aga Zoar, working himself into a lather, paced his tent. He pounded his chest. “Idiots! Idiots! I am surrounded by fools.” He flopped on a stool. “All my subjects fear and hate me,” he muttered. The Aga winced at the enormity of his statement. Fear and hate were all he had ever known, even from his mother, and he barely remembered her.

It was all he would ever know. That’s what power did to a man. So why did he lust for it?

Had he ever loved? Yes, he loved his son, Dorak, and he had loved his first wife for a brief time. They had been young but not careful. She had died during a hunt when a boar charged and her horse had gone down. He couldn’t get to her in time. Zoar saddened at the memory. He had almost cried at her funeral while placing zuni petals on her funeral pyre. It had been her favorite flower.

He had stood for almost a full day until the fire burned itself out, and with it, a part of him.

But, oddly, he had felt relieved. He was free from the cares of love and would never have to give of himself again. Zoar had walked away from the pyre never to look back.

Now he loved only power. A great empire was being born under his leadership. He scoffed at the notion of Hasan Daeg. Two thousand years be damned. He was building for ten thousand years and more!

Even after his death, his son Dorak would honor Zoar by constructing great temples and monuments to the legend that was Zoar. He may never live to see the completion of his dream, but Dorak would. The Great Aga! Ruler of the World!