Demon King (19 page)

There was only Erivan and me. He was armed with an ancient sword pulled from one of the displays hanging along the hall. “Now we’ll see what they’re worth,” I said.

“We will,” he said, and I heard a strange note of glee, strange for a man who wasn’t supposed to have any of the bloodlust of a warrior. I glanced at the bedroom door, to see how many Tovieti we’d face, but saw no one. As I realized more magic had been spun, a yellow silk noose came about my throat, tightened, and I smelt Erivan’s clove-scented breath hot against my ear as he throttled me.

The best way to successfully strangle an alert man is to use a very thin garrote, perhaps a wire. This will either crush or cut through the windpipe, and the victim will fall unconscious and die quickly. But the Tovieti loved their sacramental cord, nearly as thick as my finger, and the way it killed slowly, letting the red grasp of death gradually close on its prey.

I was vigilant, trained, and strong. Erivan should have yanked the cord tight about my throat, then turned his back and pulled, cord over his shoulder as if he were trying to lift me, as a laborer shoulders a sack of grain.

My fist smashed back like a hammer into his groin. He wanted to scream, but his wind was gone, keening like the tempest outside. I turned, inside his guard, not wanting my sword, rage at his betrayal shaking me as a terrier shakes a rat, wanting his death with my claws, my fangs, and I drove my fists into his ribs, his guts.

He stumbled backward against the balustrade. He was a big man, almost as big as I am, but I felt no strain as I picked him up by the belt and hair and bent him back over the railing. His face was close to mine, eyes wide in terror, and then I snapped his spine like a twig, and let him drop away, down the stairs, pinwheeling lifelessly like a rag doll a child tosses away.

I had my sword in hand and went down the stairs, looking for Karjan. Now we’d arm ourselves and hunt the Tovieti as if we were hounds, hunt them to their death. I heard cries from outside, shouted orders, the clatter of running feet, and guessed the Tovieti knew their trap had snapped empty, and now it was their turn to die.

It was. It took only a few moments to pass out weapons and divide my men and not a few women, angry as any at the invasion of their home, into teams.

As we burst into the drive, a company of cavalry, hard, battle-scarred men of the emperor’s bodyguard, galloped to the palace, and their captain said the company was to obey any orders I gave.

Within the hour several companies of Kutulu’s uniformed wardens reported. The grounds were sealed and surrounded and they were at my command.

We went systematically from room to room, building to building. My orders were simple: Kill them all. Perhaps I should have ordered a few prisoners to be taken, but I was as enraged as any of my servants, the sanctity of my refuge despoiled. Besides, I somehow knew the two leaders of the attack had been the woman who almost killed me and the traitorous Erivan.

We found only four Tovieti — one woman, three men, cowering in nooks. They died, and their bodies were dragged into the central drive in front of the main house with the others who’d died, in the first attack. None of us felt the wind or the rain that lashed down.

The storm died as dawn came, a gray, sodden, sunless time. There were fourteen bodies on the cobbles, and another nineteen of my own people, whose corpses were handled gently, carefully, laid with honor on the great tables of the main hall. They’d died in my defense — and, ultimately, the defense of Numantia — as bravely as any soldier on any battlefield. Their bodies would be burned with the greatest ceremony and I’d make many sacrifices to Saionji, to the gods of Nicias, and to their own gods and godlets if they were known, hoping the Destroyer and the Creator goddess would give them great advancement in their next life.

I heard more horses and saw a second group of cavalry, again from the emperor’s bodyguard, ride through the palace gates. Behind them were four long black carriages with tiny window slits, no doubt intended to carry any Tovieti prisoners. They’d return to the dungeons empty.

At the front of the riders were Kutulu and someone I vaguely recognized as one of my servants, a woman I’d thought barely smart enough to handle her duties as a candle trimmer. Even in my grief and rage, I reminded myself yet again to never judge someone by his or her expression or behavior, and I knew Kutulu must’ve enjoyed giving her orders to play the dunce. Now she looked as she was in fact, a keen-eyed, sharp-witted police agent, and she half-smiled when I nodded to her. I wasn’t angry, felt no betrayal — Kutulu and the emperor spied on everyone. Besides, it had obviously been she who’d gone for help.

“Good morning, my friend,” Kutulu said. “I’m happy you’re alive.”

“As am I.”

He dismounted carefully. “One of these days,” he said, “I shall find a way to never ride a horse again. Murderous beasts!” The horse nickered as if it had understood him. Kutulu went down the row of bodies, staring carefully at each face, memorizing it. Four times he nodded, recognizing, even in twisted death, whom he was looking at. He came back and drew me aside. “Fascinating,” he said. “Some of them I knew.”

“I thought so.”

“One was a criminal, a man who specialized in stealing jewels from the houses of the rich. I suppose he showed the others how to gain entry to your palace.

“But the others are — were more interesting. They were longtime apostates. They hated the Rule of Ten and have managed to transfer their treason to the emperor. All were from reputable, if dissident, families.

“You know, if they weren’t traitors, you might almost respect them for their dedication to a cause.”

“Fuck them,” I snarled. “I don’t respect anyone who tries to stab me in the back.”

Kutulu shrugged. “Would you have them put on a uniform and propose open battle? That would be foolish, and the Tovieti aren’t fools.”

He was right, but I was in no mood to think logically.

“Now, Tribune Damastes á Cimabue,” Kutulu said, suddenly formal, “it is my duty to issue the following order, which has been approved by the emperor: You are directed to leave this palace as quickly as it’s possible to gather your belongings.”

I felt as if I’d been sandbagged. Nearly murdered, and now the emperor chooses to disgrace me still further by ordering me out of this palace I’d been given? It was his right, but hardly honorable. Again, hard rage grew within me.

A voice came: “That is my personal order, Tribune, and must quickly be obeyed.” I spun and saw, standing in the doorway of one of the carriages, the emperor, Laish Tenedos!

There was a gasp from my servitors, and a rustle as they knelt. I bowed low.

“Stand, Damastes, my friend,” he said, and now my surprise was greater than any of my servants'. “We gave this order,” the emperor went on, “because you are the best and most trusted of all my servants, and I can little afford to be without your services, especially in these troubled times.” So my disgrace was ended. “Come, Tribune,” he ordered. “Walk with me to the garden. We have matters to discuss.”

I obeyed, rather numbly. Tenedos waited until we were out of everyone’s earshot and had passed through a gate into one of my smaller glades, then said, calmly, “As I said, these are perilous times.”

“I think last night brought that to my attention,” I managed to say.

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Indeed. First, as to this matter of the palace. Kutulu said he warned you about its indefensibility before, and I think the Tovieti proved it rather thoroughly. When we’ve taken care of them completely, you may, of course, return. I intend to wipe them out to the last man and woman, and then extirpate all record they ever existed. Their treacherous heresy must not be allowed to propagate itself, even in dusty tomes only scholars consult. But there’s a greater enemy to deal with first.”

“Maisir?”

“Of course. There have been some … unusual incidents on our borders. There’ve been reports of Maisirian patrols crossing through the Border States and spying on our outposts, and also that spies and saboteurs have been entering Urey and moving north toward Nicias. As yet, Kutulu hasn’t been able to arrest any of these Maisirian agents, but I’m sure he’ll be successful, and then we’ll find out exactly what King Bairan’s plans are.

“I was impressed by his attempts to hire you away. I read your report this morning, immediately after hearing the news of the attack. Needless to say, I knew you’d penetrate Baron Sala’s words and find the true meaning — that he wishes you, and your ability and popularity, out of the equation in the days to come.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Much as I’d like to deal with that damned Fergana, things didn’t feel right.”

“I admire you, Damastes, and your absolute oath of loyalty.”

“It keeps life simpler, sir.”

Tenedos chuckled. “And it’s been exceedingly complicated lately, hasn’t it?” That was as much as he ever said in the way of apology for my and Marán’s humiliation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, on to the future. I was not speaking idly when I said I have a great task.”

“Which is?”

“I’m not sure of the precise posting. But I want you to go somewhere safe … perhaps your wife’s estates. I doubt if any Tovieti has courage enough to intrude on the Agramónte lands.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Those other carriages contain papers, maps, and reports I want you to be familiar with. All of them deal with Maisir. Let no one else read them or even know of their existence. Study the documents well, for they’ll be the greatest weapon you’ll have in the days to come. For Maisir is a mighty enemy, the greatest Numantia has ever faced.”

“You’re saying war is inevitable?”

The emperor looked somber. “I fear so. And if it happens, Saionji will be given blood sacrifices beyond even a goddess’s dreams.”

I almost didn’t spot the two faces peering through the brush, but a soldier’s eye, like a hunter’s, is trained to catch any movement. The men were bearded and wore crudely tanned conical leather caps with ties. I clicked my tongue, and Karjan, dozing in his saddle, snapped awake. I thought they were hunters, but the way they reacted suggested otherwise. One moment they were there, the next the leafy spaces between the brush were empty.

I gigged Lucan into the brush and up the slight hillside as my escort belatedly came alert. The two men were running hard, dodging from tree to tree, toward a low butte. They were armed, one with a bow, the other with a short stabbing spear. I saw the flash of a sword at one’s waist. No one hunts anything, not even tigers, with a sword.

Karjan was beside me. “Take them,” I snapped, and we kicked our horses into a full gallop, drawing our swords. Branches whipped, and we ducked behind our horse’s necks. We were closing, less than thirty yards distant, when the two dove into a thicket. I pulled Lucan up, slid from the saddle, and pushed after them. Possibly I was foolhardy, but I doubted they were bait for an ambush.

The thicket grew out of the side of the butte, cracked gray stone that rose almost sheer. Nothing. The two had vanished. Karjan was beside me, blade ready. I nodded left, and Karjan slipped over. We needed no orders or discussion — we’d gone into cover after armed men many times, and the skills were pure muscle reflex. We close-combed the thicket and around it, but found nothing. We clambered to the top of the butte. By then, the rest of the Red Lancers had ridden up and were helping.

No one found anything — not the men, not their footsteps, not a single trace of anyone having ever trod this soil. I heard someone whisper, “Magic.” So it might have been. Or merely that the men knew this ground and had an escape route that left no traces.

We remounted and returned to the road. An hour later, the road from Nicias came to the Penally River and followed the curvings of the windswept water. We were only a few miles from Irrigon. Irrigon and Marán.

• • •

Irrigon sat like a mailed fist across the lands the Agramóntes had ruled for generations. It was built as a fighting stronghold on the rocks above the Penally River, which secured two sides of the castle. It was five stories tall, and the roof was machicolated. On the roof remained hearthstones and iron cook pots for the oil the lords of Irrigon used for a last resort in primitive times. There were two four-sided towers on the river side, and a large round tower on each of the landward faces of the structure. In front of one tower spread a verdant park, and scattered not far from the other were outbuildings and stables, while the road meandered on toward the nearby village.

Irrigon had been given to Marán when her father passed away, which technically meant it was mine as well. However, I never felt comfortable in or near the brooding stones, and once thought on the matter, wondering if I were foolish enough to be jealous of Marán’s wealth, far greater than even the Tovieti riches the Emperor Tenedos and his tiny demon had given me.

I decided I wasn’t. I was all too aware there’d been too much force wielded by the Agramóntes over the centuries, too much usurpation of others’ Irisu-granted rights in casual arrogance. I noted the ways the peasants looked at their masters — Marán’s two brothers and the lesser if still mighty members of the family — hiding both terror and hatred. Only Marán was granted honest respect, although I thought it was wary, as if the workers were waiting for her to become like the others.

If I always felt a bit on edge at Irrigon, it had been worse when her father was alive, and almost as bad when her brothers, Praen and Mamin, visited. Fortunately they had their own manors a day or more away and spent little time at the family seat.

I once wondered if they felt the dark resonance of the blood and tyranny, but I was utterly foolish. The two were utterly unconcerned for anything but their own wishes. It took very little time to understand why Marán had fled to Nicias. The Agramónte men, and the other country noblemen I’d met, weren’t dumb, but they had no interest in anything that didn’t directly concern them. Their women and children took that behavior as a guide.

Realizing the two brothers were thick as rocks, I then embraced the obvious: They didn’t like Irrigon because it was a dank, depressing fortress that would’ve made a good prison. As new owners of Irrigon, we should have had the lord’s quarters, but we viewed that prospect with horror. Marán said it would feel incestuous, and I that countless generations of Agramóntes would be hanging over our shoulders, clucking in shock and dismay when they noted Marán and I liked to disport in original ways.