Hammer Of God (19 page)

“Nevertheless, Mister Jones. Your presence is required.”

A tiny bubble of resentment rose to his throat. “Why? I haven't done anything wrong. Unless weeding is counted a crime these days.”

Commander Idson's mouth tightened. “Mister Jones, I don't care to lay hands on you, but I will if I must. Her Majesty has given me an order and I'll obey it.”

“An order to escort me to the castle.” He wiped his hands on his trousers; sweat was turning the dirt to mud. “What bit of the castle?”

“The Grand Ballroom,” said Idson, after a moment. As though saying that much was a betrayal of state secrets.

Not the dungeons, then. She's not putting me back there, to keep company with Zandakar.

The bubble of resentment persisted. “She needs me, does she?”

“What Her Majesty needs or doesn't need is not for me to say.” Idson took a suggestive step backwards. “The queen is waiting, sir.”

And that was that. The queen is waiting…so who cared what a nobody toymaker might need, or how busy he might be, or what other plans he might have for the rest of his day.

I don't care what Hettie said, I'm not mixing myself up in this business again. Whatever I do it'll end up being the wrong thing and I'll find myself locked up a second time.

Even to himself he sounded sulky…and didn't care.

“All right,” he said, grudging. “I don't suppose I've a choice.”

“None, sir,” said Idson.

He was perversely pleased the matter was so important, apparently, that he wasn't even to have a moment to change into clean clothes.

Even if I could change I think I'd stay like this. I think that young lady needs to know not everyone thinks the sun rises in her eyes.

Not any more, anyway.

Idson had come in a light cart pulled by a strong fast horse and driven by one of his subordinates. It had an uncovered back, which meant everyone in the street could see Mister Jones was in trouble again…

As the young soldier whipped up the horse and guided the cart into a swift about-face, Dexterity sat on the hard wooden seat and scowled at the curtained windows of his neighbours' cottages.

Yes, yes, I'm in trouble again…

Idson said not a word during the journey to the castle. Dexterity wanted to ask him about Rhian's judicial combat with the dukes, but the commander's expression was so forbidding he didn't dare. How frustrating. Ursa hadn't been precisely forthcoming with details. Even though he was still so hurt and angry, he couldn't help but feel worried too.

I remember her a little girl, trailing a lambswool-stuffed dolly behind her. Now she's killing grown men with a sword. And is that God's plan too, Hettie? A young girl slaughtering men old enough to be herfather?

Not that Rhian had been given much choice. The dukes had practically slaughtered themselves, so stubbornly had they refused to yield.

Even so, Hettie. What has the cost been to the girl? All very well to say they deserved it. But does she deserve a life crowded with those kind of memories?

A pang went through him, remembering how she'd suffered over the death of Ven'Martin. And then he remembered he was angry and hurt, and what Rhian might or might not be feeling was none of his business. He folded his arms, ignoring Idson and glaring at the back of the younger soldier's head for the rest of the journey.

They reached the castle without incident. The cart halted in one of the rear courtyards and Idson gestured him out. In silence he followed the commander inside and through a maze of ground floor corridors until they reached a set of magnificently carved, gilded and painted double doors guarded by a full skein of Idson's finest men. They saluted when they saw their commander.

“The Grand Ballroom,” said Idson, with a sideways glance. “Her Majesty waits within. Are you prepared, Mister Jones?”

No, of course he wasn't. But there was no point in saying that, so he shrugged. “Yes. I suppose.”

“All right then,” said Idson, and nodded.

Two of his soldiers flung open the doors.

The Grand Ballroom was breathtaking, and full of ambassadors. Well, not full, the hall was an enormous space that could fit three hundred dancing couples, at least. But it felt full, with all those people staring incredulously at Commander Idson and his scruffy companion.

“Dexterity!” said a guttural, familiar voice as the soldiers pulled closed the ballroom's wide doors.

Dexterity looked left and saw Zandakar. It was most disconcerting to see the Mijaki warrior dressed like an Ethrean in linen and wool. His blue hair, so long now, gleamed in the bright candlelight. He looked well-fed. Not ill-treated, despite the six soldiers flanking him. His pale blue eyes were warm with pleasure.

Despite everything, he smiled. “Zandakar.”

“Mister Jones,” said Idson, coldly.

Of course. Greeting anyone before making obeisance to the queen was a glaring breach of protocol.

And you know something, Hettie? I could not care less.

Idson left him to walk to the dais alone, where Rhian sat on a throne surrounded by so many important men. There was Helfred, splendid in crimson. There was Alasdair, with such dark, shadowed eyes. Ah yes, and the king's cousin Ludo, the new Duke of Linfoi. A bright, merry young man – when he wasn't caught up in terrible happenings. Duke Edward. Duke Rudi. And Rudi's son Adric, so recently elevated.

The privy council as it is now. She's got so many courtiers to give her advice, she doesn't need me.

He felt a particular cool gaze upon him and looked sideways. Emperor Han. There was a man to chill a toymaker's bones. The gathered ambassadors, well, they meant little or nothing to him. But Emperor Han and his witch-men were frightful. Memory battered him, of being held in that prison cell below the castle's foundations, being confronted by Han's merciless Sun-dao. The man had winnowed his soul without hesitation or mercy.

And was that a part of your plan too, Hettie?

No doubt about it, his unkempt appearance was making an impression. On the dais the privy council frowned, to a man. The gathered ambassadors inched backwards in case his dirt was contagious.

But Rhian just waited for him to reach her on the dais. Magnificent in black brocade and those savagely carved rubies, she looked pale and exhausted and in quite a lot of pain. Was he the only one here who could see that? In their crowded weeks together he'd come to know her so well.

“Mister Jones,” she said, as he reached the foot of the dais and stopped. “It seems you have been interrupted.”

He bowed. “I was gardening…Your Majesty.”

“Yes. I thought you might've been.” She nodded at the dried pulp on his trousers. “Does the crown owe you a new tomato plant?”

Her humour was brittle, with anger lingering beneath it. Oh, if only they weren't in front of an audience. If only they were on the road again, in the peddler's wagon, and he could speak to her plainly, man to woman. Friend to friend. They had been friends, hadn't they?

“Majesty, Commander Idson said you wanted me.”

Rhian nodded. “Yes.”

He let his gaze slide sideways to Helfred. Very, very slightly Ethrea's new prolate nodded, his eyes narrowing. Dexterity read the message without difficulty. This is important. Your hurt feelings can wait.

One of the ambassadors, Arbenian from the gruff bearhide look of him, pushed forward. “You are the toymaker she says is touched by your God?”

She says. Well, here was a rude fellow and no mistake. Dexterity felt his spine stiffen. All very well for him to be at odds with Rhian. She was his queen and something more, besides. But what right did this foreigner have to be rude to Rhian under her own roof?

“Sir? I don't believe we've been introduced.”

The man's eyes widened. “What?”

“Ambassador Gutten, this is Mister Dexterity Jones, House Havrell's one-time royal toymaker,” said Rhian. There was the faintest breath of amusement in her voice. “Mister Jones, you are presented to His Excellency the Arbenian Ambassador. You may address him as Sere Gutten.”

It came as a surprise to discover there was something…liberating…in having fallen so low. Dexterity shoved his dirty hands in his pockets and looked Gutten up and down, much as Idson had surveyed him in his garden. “Yes, Sere Gutten,” he said, as though the Arbenian was a shopkeeper. “There was a time, in the recent past, when I was touched by the grace of God.”

Another of the ambassadors stepped forward. Dexterity looked up and up into the man's broad, bearded face. His feet tried to step his body backwards but he over-ruled them. He had no intention of revealing weakness in front of Rhian. It was important that she not think him awestruck or in any way malleable.

My life's my own again and that's how it's going to stay.

“Jones?” The giant tipped his head to one side. “Voolksyn.”

Huge, bald and bearded? Dressed in sealskin? This had to be the ambassador from Harbisland. Ursa said she stitched up more Harbisland sailors than any other kind. They were always finding their way into trouble. Certainly this enormous fellow was a sight to strike fear in the heart of an ordinary man.

He nodded, cautiously. “Ambassador Voolksyn.”

“Her Majesty says your God speaks to you in dreams.”

“Ah…well, yes,” he replied, still cautious. “I've had some dreams, it's true.” He looked at the rest of the ambassadors, searching for answers and finding none. Lastly he looked again at Rhian. “Is that why I'm here? Because I don't dream any more.”

Which wasn't a lie. The last time he saw Hettie he'd been wide awake.

Rhian sat so still on her throne she might have been a carved statue. “They want to know what you know of Mijak,” she said. Her voice was cool and unexcited. Whatever she was feeling was hidden deep within. “I want you to tell them about Garabatsas. I want you to tell them what Hettie's told you.”

He stared at Zandakar, whose face also looked carved. The warrior wasn't in chains but the soldiers stood so close around him he might as well have been. Although six Ethrean soldiers were no match for Zandakar. If he wanted them dead they'd be dead by his bare hands. So why was he letting himself remain a prisoner? Did he think he owed Rhian his presence, unprotesting?

Perhaps he does, but I don't. I don't owe her anything.

Resentment bubbled again. He'd been sent away, he'd been put aside like a broken doll. Well then, let him stay put aside! People weren't puppets, they weren't to be played with like toys of wood and string and paint. He glared at Rhian, letting her see his resentment, not caring he showed an impolite face to the world.

“Dexterity…” Rhian almost sighed. The effort it cost her to remain upright and unaffected was palpable, at least to him. “Some of the ambassadors believe I have concocted the threat of Mijak with the aid of Emperor Han and Zandakar, so Ethrea and the empire of Tzhung-tzhungchai might dominate the world.”

What? “But that's ridiculous,” he said, turning. “Her Majesty has concocted nothing. Mijak is real. Its threat is real. You have living proof of it, there.” He pointed to Zandakar. “Ask him what he knows. What he's seen.” What he's done. But I won't tell them. If they learn the half of it they'll bay for his life, and I'll not have Zandakar's blood on my hands.

“As we have said already to your queen, one man is not a nation,” said the ambassador from Keldrave. He needed no introduction, not with his ears weighed down with wiferings. “Saying Mijak is real, do words make it so? We have not heard of this place until today.”

“Mijak has been sleeping for a very long time,” he retorted. “Now it's woken up, which is a great pity.”

“You are a little man,” said another ambassador. Everything about him said he represented Slynt. “Little men want big men to raise them high.” He jerked his chin at Emperor Han, so quiet while the ballroom hummed with tension. “What does Tzhung-tzhungchai promise to little men to say the things its emperor and your queen want said?”

“Tzhung-tzhungchai promised me nothing!” he snapped. “And even if they did offer me something I wouldn't take it. I don't like Tzhung-tzhungchai. Until the emperor came I was happy enough. Ethrea's queen trusted me and knew I would never hurt her, at least not on purpose, but Emperor Han changed that. He barged in where he wasn't wanted, him and his witch-men. Just because they'd learned a little of Mijak—” He held up his thumb and forefinger, pinched close. “They'd learned this much, no more, but they're so arrogant they thought they knew more than me. And they didn't.”

Voolksyn narrowed his eyes. “You knew of Mijak and did not tell your queen?”

“It wasn't time!” he said, despairing. “Hettie said I had to keep it secret. Rhian had to be made safe on her throne first.”

“Hettie?” said Voolksyn.

Dexterity pressed a hand to his forehead. Oh dear, oh dear. Whyever did I come? “My wife. She died twenty years ago. She brings me messages from God. I know it sounds absurd, but I'm afraid I can't help that. Hettie showed me the destruction of Garabatsas. It was a small township in Sharvay.” He looked around at the ambassadors' skeptical faces. “You must've heard of Sharvay. Even I've heard of Sharvay.”

They nodded reluctantly. Gutten growled. “What do we care of Sharvay?”

He nearly stamped his foot. “We care because the warriors of Mijak destroyed it! As they have destroyed scores of towns and cities, as they will destroy Ethrea and all your lands if they're not stopped. It's true. I saw it,” he added as the ambassadors glanced at each other, unconvinced. “All those poor people…” His voice caught in his throat. The horror of Garabatsas was never far away. “They had no hope against the warriors of Mijak. They burned alive. All of them. And we shall burn too, because the Empress of Mijak wants to conquer the world for her dreadful god. She will conquer the world, she and her son. If we don't work together they will. I promise.”

“You promise?” said Gutten. His face was ugly with derision. “Little man? Little toymaking man?”

Dexterity stepped back a pace, then turned to stare at Rhian. “You sent for me so they could sneer?”

“No,” she replied. The stitched cut in her cheek looked swollen. Painful. Beneath her careful mask of indifferent self-control he could see how she was struggling. “I sent for you because I need an honest man to speak for me.”

Well, that was nice. A pity she hadn't remembered his honesty before she gave him to Sun-dao…

But that was an argument for another time.

He turned back to the ambassadors. “My lords, you'd be well advised to heed my words. I have spoken the truth here. Ethrea concocts no nefarious plans with the Tzhung, or with Mijak. Ethrea seeks to save you. I seek to save you, and so does Queen Rhian.”

“We should believe you?” said one of the ambassadors who'd been silent till then. From Dev'karesh? He looked pale enough and he stank of cloves. That was a Dev'kareshi custom, one Ursa said gave them cankers of the mouth.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly wary. “You should.”

The ambassador's eyes were wide and malignant. “Burn with a miracle, to show you do not lie. Burn and we will consider Mijak and gods of blood and whether Tzhung-tzhungchai can be trusted.”

He stared at the ambassador, aghast. “Just like that? I can't. I can't pull a miracle out of my pocket like a kerchief!”

More muttering, ugly now, as the trading nations' ambassadors glared. Dexterity folded his arms, forcing himself not to cringe beneath the weight of their suspicion. He looked at Emperor Han. Emperor Han looked back. Whatever he was thinking and feeling he kept locked behind his smooth amber face.

“This Jones does not burn,” said Gutten, still sneering. “There is no danger. It is all lies, to break charter. Lies to destroy the trading nations.”

“That's not true!” said Rhian, and stood. “Dexterity's miracles weren't lies! His visions – the people he healed – the child he brought back from death – these things are not lies, Gutten!”

“I did not see them,” said Gutten, his lip curling.

“I saw them! The king saw them! God's Prolate in Ethrea saw them!” Rhian retorted. “Am I lying, Ambassador? Are these good men of my council lying? Have I suborned them? Why would I do that? Ethrea is my sacred trust. Would I risk it, would I betray every man, woman and child in my kingdom to make an alliance with Tzhung-tzhungchai?”

Gutten looked her up and down. “Yes.”

“Why? Because you would?”

“I make no alliance with Tzhung-tzhungchai!” snarled Gutten. “I honour the treaties, I honour the charter!” He swept his arm round in a fierce arc, taking in everyone but Emperor Han and his ambassador. “We honour, but you do not! You wheedle, you plot, you want to steal what is ours!”

“That is the lie!” Rhian cried, and would have leapt from the dais except the king took her arm. She snatched herself free of him, searing him with a look. “You are swift to smear me, Gutten. You are quick to point an accusing finger, but I see you in corners with Voolksyn of Harbisland. What are you plotting? What do your whispers mean? Perhaps our treaties and charters are in danger from you!”

“Harbisland plots nothing with Arbenia!” said Voolksyn, his face darkening with displeasure.

“How do I know that?” Rhian demanded. “Must I trust your word when you won't trust mine? How am I to trust any of you when you're so quick to think the worst of me?”

Uproar then, as the ambassadors shouted and protested and turned on each other to vilify or seek support. Only Han and his ambassador kept apart, their expressions wary. Caught unprotected in the storm, Dexterity watched as Idson and his soldiers stepped forward, prepared to leave Zandakar alone. And Zandakar…he stood taut, ready to kill anyone who dared raise a hand to Rhian.

“Enough! Enough!” Rhian shouted. “My lord ambassadors, control yourselves!”

But they ignored her.

Dexterity closed his eyes. He could hear the roaring flames of Garabatsas, hear the screams and the wailing and the warriors' terrible chant. Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! Even with his eyes closed he could see the burning people, see the buildings fly apart in flames as the warrior Dmitrak, Zandakar's brother, used his dreadful gauntlet of power to reduce the township to rubble.