Hammer Of God (30 page)

“Wall?” said Zandakar, frowning.

“Yes. Look.” Dexterity pointed over to the right. “See the headland, there? See the stone wall? If you climbed on top of that and started walking, provided you didn't fall off or drop dead from over-exertion or find yourself arrested, you'd eventually end up back here…but on the opposite side of the harbour.” He pointed again, to the left. “There, you see? The wall goes right round Ethrea, Zandakar. I believe we're the only entirely walled kingdom in the world. As part of their duties, the dukes maintain the section of wall that marks their sea-facing boundary. It's all very tidy. And it works remarkably well. I'm sure it will give Dmitrak great pause.”

Zandakar stared at him. “Tcha. Stupid Dexterity. In dream you saw Dmitrak chalava-hagra?” He clenched his fist and extended his arm, as though he wore a gold-and-red crystal gauntlet. “You think Ethrea stone wall stand?”

Dexterity felt his spirits plummet. No, of course it wouldn't. Not against the power Dmitrak commanded.

“If you were still the chalava-hagra, Zandakar, how would you defeat Ethrea?”

“Dimmi has boats now?” He shrugged. “Sail round Ethrea. Destroy wall. Send warriors into duchies. Duchy soldiers die quick. Duchy soldiers…” He spat on the ground. “Tcha.”

Dexterity felt ill. I'm not a soldier, I have no knowledge of things military, but even I can see that makes perfect sense. Flood Ethrea with Mijaki warriors, crush the people in their duchies…“And then you'd sail into Kingseat harbour and destroy the town?”

Zandakar nodded. “Zho.”

“Perhaps it won't be as easy as you think for your brother to conquer us,” he said, rallying. “There's the armada, remember? And if that fails, we'll have Emperor Han and his witch-men. We might even have soldiers from the other trading nations.”

Again, Zandakar stared. “Mijak has chalava. Chalava has chalava-haka and chalava-hagra. Chalava-hagra has chotzaka.”

He had to think for a minute, getting all the strange Mijaki words straight. God. Priests. God's hammer. Army. “How many, Zandakar? How many warriors of Mijak?”

He shrugged. “I think you say tens of thousands.”

God help us…“And can you think of a way to defeat them?”

Another shrug. A sigh. “I try, Dexterity.”

Chilled to the bone despite the bright sun and his buttoned jacket, Dexterity folded his arms and hugged his ribs tight. “Let's go home,” he said, subdued. Dispirited. “Unless there's anything else here you need to see?”

There wasn't. They hitched Otto to the donkey cart and made their slow way back to the cottage, winding through Kingseat township's narrow, crowded streets so Zandakar became at least a little familiar with the place.

Home again, Zandakar spent what remained of the afternoon dancing his hotas with a kitchen knife, in the back garden. After that he took care of Otto while Dexterity cooked a simple dinner of braised coney and beets. Night fell. With their meal eaten and the untidiness of dinner tidied away, they sat in companionable silence in the kitchen and whittled.

As the clock struck ten a wind sprang up inside the cottage…and Emperor Han's witch-man Sun-dao appeared.

Dexterity leapt to his feet so fast his chair fell over and his whittling knife skittered out of his hand. Zandakar leapt up too but he didn't drop his knife. It was held before him, ready to strike.

Sun-dao looked at him. One extravagantly arched eyebrow lifted – and a cold wind lashed out, plucking the blade from Zandakar's grasp and flinging it to the other side of the kitchen. It hit the wall and dropped to the floor. The sound of its spinning was loud in the fraught silence.

Dexterity found his voice. “Stop that! I won't have your witch-man tricks in my home!”

Zandakar said nothing. If he was shaken by Sun-dao's action it didn't show on his face…but he was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to launch into his hotas even though his knife was gone. His eyes were as cold as splinters of deep winter ice.

Dexterity held out a warning hand. “Peace, Zandakar. Let's not do anything hasty.” He glared at Sun-dao. “What is the meaning of this? How dare you barge in here without so much as a by-your-leave!”

The witch-man Sun-dao bowed, his carmine-tipped fingers neatly clasped before him. The movement set his long bone-plaited moustaches to swinging. Head to toe he was dressed in black silk. The sumptuous fabric seemed to drink the kitchen's lamplight, giving it a kind of golden glow.

Or perhaps that was the Tzhung's sorcerous power.

“Well?” he demanded, thrusting aside the memories of their last encounter. “Are you going to stand there like a mute or are you going to answer me?”

Sun-dao's eyes were almond-shaped and black. Very little white showed. His amber skin was as smooth as a youth's, and his black hair was bound behind him. He was a good two handspans shorter than Emperor Han and much slighter of build. He looked almost frail, as though the winds he commanded could blow him away on a whim.

“Zandakar of Mijak,” he said. His voice was thin and reedy, flavoured with the mystery of Tzhung-tzhungchai. “You will meet with the emperor.”

“Why?” said Dexterity, before Zandakar could speak. “What does Han want with him?”

“That is not your concern,” said Sun-dao.

He shook his head. “Oh, it is. It's very much my concern. You see, I'm responsible for Zandakar. Her Majesty released him from the castle into my custody. Zandakar goes nowhere without me.”

“You?” Sun-dao frowned. “The emperor has no need of you.”

“Then we've nothing to discuss. You can go,” he retorted. “And don't you think to try any of your witch-man trickery, sir. Her Majesty would be most displeased…and I've the feeling your emperor doesn't wish to displease her.”

Sun-dao's red fingernails gleamed as his fingers tightened in annoyance. As a witch-man of Tzhung he must be more used to inspiring fear than defiance. “You will come to the emperor with Zandakar?”

“If you'll tell me what this is about…I'll consider it.”

“You wish to stop Mijak's scorpion god?” said Sun-dao, his reedy voice tight. “You will come with me to Emperor Han.”

Oh dear, oh dear. Dexterity hissed a breath between his teeth, then looked at Zandakar. “This might be important. I'll go. You stay here. If I don't return—”

“No!” said Sun-dao. His voice cracked just a little, as though his store of patience was fast running dry, and a thin edge of air stirred in the kitchen. “Both of you will come. You will come now.”

Mouth dry, palms damp, Dexterity stared at Sun-dao. The man was a cipher, impossible to read. His face had less expression than a painted puppet. It would never surrender its secrets. You wish to stop Mijak's scorpion god? What kind of a question was that? Of course he wanted to stop Zandakar's chalava. They all wanted to stop it. But why this secrecy, why a mysterious witch-man in the night?

What does Han want of Zandakar that can't be talked of in daylight?

If they didn't go with Sun-dao, he'd never find out.

He looked at Zandakar. “I think we should go,” he said quietly. “Are you willing? If you're not, then we won't.”

Instead of answering, Zandakar rested his cold blue gaze on the witch-man. He'd taken off the Dev'kareshi headwrap. In the warm kitchen lamplight his blue hair glowed, so strange.

“This man. This Dexterity,” he said. His voice was harsh. “My…friend. He is good man. You say here this Dexterity safe? You say here this emperor wei harm?”

Sun-dao's dark eyes glinted with a reluctant respect. “I say.”

Zandakar nodded. “Tcha. We go.” Then he smiled, a feral, brutal baring of teeth. “Sun-dao witch-man. You lie, I kill. Zho?”

Sun-dao laughed, and clapped his hands.

A great wind sprang up. The kitchen lamps blew out. Dexterity shouted as he felt the cottage dissolve around him, as he felt his own flesh and blood stream into tatters leaving only his thoughts intact.

He couldn't tell if he was wrapped in silence or if the sound was so loud it had rendered him deaf. He was hot and cold, standing still and racing. His eyes were open but he couldn't see, as helplessly blind as a newborn kitten. Time stopped, or was sped so fast it no longer had meaning.

This is madness. Madness. Oh please, Hettie, help!

And then he was whole again, his tattered body re-formed. He could hear. He could see. He was alive, and unharmed.

“Welcome, Mister Jones,” said a cool, familiar voice.

Emperor Han. He sat upon a magnificent gold and gemstone throne that was fashioned like some amazing beast out of legend. Not a dragon, not a bird, not a lion or a gryphon, but a strange blending of these animals that defied a simple name. A beaked, maned head reared above him, the eyes great orbs of facet-cut emerald. Its claws, which formed the throne's arm-rests, were a deep purple stone. Not amethyst but something like it, with a red and violent heart. The throne rested upon a thick coiled tail of gold encrusted with diamond scales. Two scaled and feathered wings spread wide behind him.

Dexterity shuddered. It looked like a creature born of a brain-fever, or madness. Instead of answering Han he looked for Zandakar. The warrior stood an arm's length distant, just as dazed. There was no sign of Sun-dao.

“You're all right, Zandakar?”

Zandakar nodded. “Zho. You?”

“A trifle wind-blown, but unharmed,” he said, then stared at their new surroundings. A small chamber, with lacquered pale golden wood-panelled walls and no windows. Instead it was hung with magnificent silk tapestries depicting snow-capped mountains, wooded glens, tumbling rivers and bright-plumed birds in flight. Scenes from Tzhung-tzhungchai, most like. The floor was black marble, veined in red and gold. Warm light came from scores of tapered white candles, standing tall in iron holders like soldiers on guard. The chamber's still air was gently scented, perfumed with something exotic and unknown. This must be the Tzhung ambassador's residence. Surely they'd not been whisked to Tzhung-tzhungchai…

“You are in Kingseat,” said the emperor. “Your cottage is but a long walk away.”

He cleared his throat. This was no time to show fear. “And I would've been happy to walk it, Your Imperial Majesty. Or drive my donkey cart. I'm sure there was no need for the theatrics.”

“Walking would take too long,” said Emperor Han, his mellow voice laced with amusement. “And your donkey cart is too conspicuous. The wind is swift and silent. It hides in plain sight.”

Well, all right. Enough chit-chat. “Your witch-man said you wanted a word with Zandakar? What about, Emperor Han? As I told Sun-dao—”

“Yes,” said Han. “He is under your protection.”

And how could the emperor know that? Only moments had passed since they were whisked from the kitchen…

Or is this more witch-man sorcery? Oh, Hettie. I do wish you were here.

Han's silk tunic and trousers were a vibrant lapis blue. His feet were slippered in pearl-sewn black velvet. A rubyeyed dragon ring graced one slender forefinger. He was relaxed. Urbane. A rich, powerful man in control of his emotions.

But in his dark eyes an unquiet light gleamed.

“Zandakar of Mijak,” he said, shifting his measured gaze. “Your scorpion god holds you in high esteem. Had you been revealed in my empire of Tzhung, instead of Ethrea, the carrion crows even now would be picking clean your bones.”

Dexterity looked at Zandakar, and watched a subtle change steal over him. Dressed in drab roughspun, without polish or style, still he transformed himself into a prince. Across his lean, handsome face washed haughty arrogance and pride. Since his rescue from the slave ship he had clothed himself in a wary reticence; only once, when he slaughtered the footpads in duchy Arbat, had he seemed unequivocally himself.

Then, and now. Now I believe he is a prince of Mijak. He and Han could be cut from the same cloth.

“Chalava sees me, zho,” said Zandakar. “What is this to you, Han of Tzhung?”

If Han resented being spoken to like an underling, his face didn't reveal it. Instead he tapped that ringed finger against his lips, considering. “Queen Rhian assures me you are dedicated to seeing the destruction of Mijak. Does she lie? Is she misled? Or does she tell the truth?”

Zandakar's face tightened, then relaxed. “Truth.”

“So you do desire your people destroyed?”

“Destroyed?” Zandakar shook his head. “Wei. Want Mijak to hear true voice of chalava. Wei killing. Return home. Et-Raklion. Leave world at peace.”

Han drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his throne. “Can there ever be peace with Mijak's warriors alive beneath the sun?”

Zandakar's gaze didn't falter. “Zho.”

He said so, but was it possible? Dexterity wasn't sure. Nothing he'd learned, or been shown by Hettie, encouraged him to think Mijak could be gently persuaded to retreat.

Not while Dmitrak wields his fierce gauntlet.

“They are your people,” said Han. “I understand you'd like to think so. Alas, I think you are the one misled. But of course…” He smiled, thinly. “I could be wrong.”

Dexterity cleared his throat again, hinting. “I'm afraid I don't see what you're getting at, Emperor Han. What do you want? If you tell us plainly, without riddles, we might be able to help.”

“The uninvited man of miracles has a busy fearless tongue,” murmured Han. “He stands before queens and emperors unafraid.”

“No, sir,” he said carefully. “Not unafraid.”

In a single, sinuous move Han slid from his throne. Dexterity watched, perplexed, as the emperor approached and seized his right hand.

“Most strange,” Han whispered. “You feel like mortal flesh and blood, toymaker, yet this rough hand healed a queen's wounds. It burned without burning, and turned a man to ash. What am I to think of that, emperor of two million souls, who commands the wind and cannot raise the dead?”

Heart pounding, Dexterity stared at Han, struggling not to snatch his hand free. He could feel in the emperor a thrumming of power, a drumming of energy, that in some way he couldn't begin to understand echoed the thrumming and drumming of his own blood when he burned with miracles for God.

Emperor Han swallowed a tiny gasp. He felt it too. “Toymaker—”

“I liked it better when you called me Mister Jones,” Dexterity said, and finally pulled his hand free. Then he took a step back, just to be safe.

A thin rind of white showed around Han's dark eyes. His breathing was heavy, his nostrils flaring. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely. “What part is yours in this business?”

“I don't know,” Dexterity said, and met Han's keen gaze without flinching. “You might not believe me, but I truly don't. I do what I'm asked by the woman I married and still love with all my heart, though she's been dead twenty years. I do it for her, and for a girl I love like a daughter. You're right. I'm a toymaker, I've no business with miracles and suchlike. Yet here I am. Here you are, a mighty emperor. And here is Zandakar, warrior prince of a foreign land. What are we to make of that? I suppose…whatever we can. Together we hope for what's best for your people, and mine and yes, even the people of Mijak. They frighten me so I can hardly spit, but I don't expect they asked to be ruled by such a brutal god.”

A shadow of puzzlement crossed Han's face. “You mean it. You have been shown the truth of Mijak and still there is compassion. Another miracle, toymaker.”

Dexterity snorted. “Emperor Han, if you tell us why Sun-dao brought us here, that will be a blessed miracle!”

The snappish comment surprised a laugh from Tzhung-tzhungchai's ruler. “So! You demand an answer.”

“I do. It's only polite. Your witch-man refused to give us any explanation.”

“He was not told to,” said Han, returning to his throne. “He was to bring Zandakar to me.”

“Yes…” Dexterity glanced at Zandakar and back again. “Emperor Han, how was that accomplished? Was it – was it sorcery?”

“So say the ignorant,” Han replied, shrugging. “Are you ignorant, toymaker? What name do you give the power in your blood?”

“No name at all. In truth, I – I prefer not to think about it.”

Another laugh. “Then you are a fool.”

Dexterity gritted his teeth. Clearly Han was determined to run at his own pace. There was little point chivvying – he'd only slow down further.

The emperor leaned forward, his gaze now a knife-point aimed at Zandakar. “Prince of Mijak. Zandakar. What would you do to save your people from destruction?”

Zandakar met the bladed look with a steel stare of his own. “What must be done, Han chotzu.”

Slowly, Han sat back again. Let his hands relax on the arms of his magnificent, barbaric throne. “And you, Mister Jones? What would you do to save Ethrea? Protect your little queen? Rescue the suffering people of Mijak from their scorpion god?”

“Whatever I could,” he replied. “But that's not much, I'm afraid. I am just a toymaker, after all.”

But Han wasn't listening. His gaze was fixed to Zandakar, and though his face was smooth, in his dark eyes was a turmoil of emotion. “Prince of Mijak, what would you say if I told you I could send you to where your mother, Mijak's empress, and your warrior brother, now reside? If you could stand in a room with them, Zandakar, what would you say?”

Zandakar's eyes were wide. “I see Yuma? See Dmitrak? I say…stop.”

“And would they listen?”