Hammer Of God (43 page)

Murder? No…assassination. Rhian looked to Han. “Is this true?”

Han stared back at her, his grief-filled eyes calm. “Yes.”

“You lied to my people? You played on their sympathies, their vulnerabilities, their trust?”

“Yes,” said Han, no apology in him.

“You sent Sun-dao to Icthia so he might kill Zandakar's mother and brother?”

Han nodded. “Mijak must be stopped.”

She turned to Dexterity. “And you discovered Sun-dao's true intentions.”

“Eventually,” he said. “Thank God.”

“And you stopped him?”

He seemed surprised at her tone. “Of course we did, Your Majesty.”

Rhian stared into the night, across the endless stretch of ocean. Burning deep within her, a bright flame of fury. Then she turned and fixed Dexterity with a glare. “Mister Jones, there is no of course about it. You had no business interfering with Sun-dao.”

“Your Majesty?” he said, dumbfounded. “Surely you don't mean that. We had to stop him! When we refused to take him into the township he began raising a storm. He would've killed thousands, some of them enslaved Icthians. How can we rail against Hekat's slaughter, then turn around and slaughter thousands ourselves?”

It was a fair question, for someone who wasn't expected to save kingdoms, and countries.

You're a kind man, Dexterity. Sadly, I no longer have the luxury of kindness.

“But those enslaved Icthians died anyway, Mister Jones, didn't they?” she demanded. “And their deaths broke Han's witch-men. If you'd left Sun-dao alone it's true, he'd have killed those slaves. But Mijak's warriors would have died with them. Tell me, what do you imagine will happen when Mijak comes to Ethrea? Do you think if we ask Zandakar's mother and brother nicely to leave us be, they'll oblige? Have you forgotten Garabatsas?”

Dexterity's chin came up, his beard jutting defensively. “No! No, of course I haven't. But Zandakar had already spoken with Vortka. The priest promised to help us. Surely he deserved a chance to stop Mijak without more bloodshed.”

Kneeling with his dead brother, Emperor Han snarled. “So, Queen Rhian, this is the will of Ethrea? To talk and talk and not lift a finger against an enemy more fearsome and powerful than this world has ever known? You will not lift a finger when my witch-men offer to lay down their lives?”

She held up a hand to Han, her gaze not leaving Dexterity's shocked face. “Why does Mijak deserve mercy, Mister Jones? What mercy did it offer Garabatsas, or Icthia, or any other conquered nation? Don't you understand? Because you indulged your scruples, because you stopped Sun-dao, how many hundreds of thousands will perish? Will Ethrea fall? Tzhung-tzhungchai, with its millions? Arbenia? Harbisland? Barbruish, and the rest? Must everyone die because you turned squeamish?”

In the lamplight Dexterity was pale. “I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but I never said I'd kill for you.”

“No!” she spat. “But you're perfectly happy to have me kill for you!”

He stepped back. “Rhian—”

“And you!” she snarled, turning on Zandakar. “Standing there silent, as though someone's cut out your tongue! Do you think I don't know why you fought with Sun-dao? Do you think I'm stupid, Zandakar? You wanted to save your mother and brother. You – you hypocrite. You sicken me. All that talk of making me a killing queen, of having to be resolute, of how accepting a crown means accepting a sword and using it, by God, to preserve my realm. And then when the chance presents itself to stop Mijak in its tracks, to end this, all you can do is think of yourself?”

As Zandakar stared at her, his expression blank, his breathing swift, Alasdair stepped towards her, his eyes fathomed with compassion. “Rhian—”

She turned on him. “What? You're not angry about this?”

“Oh yes,” he said, so quiet. So deadly. “Majesty, I am steeped in fury.”

“Good,” she said, and flung round to glare again at Zandakar and Dexterity. “Tell me, gentlemen, are your memories truly so short? I killed Damwin and Kyrin! I spitted those dukes like mad dogs and destroyed their ancient Houses. I destroyed their families' happiness and turned babies into orphans. Because I had to. Because Ethrea demanded it. Because God demanded it, so I could be queen. Do you know what that cost me? Do you know what that made me?”

“Rhian, you're not a murderer,” said Alasdair, his voice soft and careful. “Damwin and Kyrin died by judicial combat. Their blood's not on your hands.”

“Not now, no. I washed it off,” she retorted. “But they are dead because of me and no sweet mumblings from you can change that.”

It was a horrible thing to say. She watched Alasdair flinch, watched the pain of her words sharpen in his eyes. There was pain in her, too, somewhere, but she couldn't afford to indulge it. Had to hold on to her anger, let it rule her, because if she didn't she'd abandon her self-control altogether.

And these men, these men. They must never see me weak.

She looked again at Dexterity. “You say Sun-dao tried to raise a storm to scour Jatharuj?”

He nodded, then found his voice. “He didn't just try, Your Majesty. He did it.” He was looking at her as though she were a stranger, some evil changeling that had stolen his darling Rhian.

I don't care, I don't care, I don't care…

“Han,” she said, and crossed the deck to stare down at the emperor. “How is this? You told me to my face the witch-men of Tzhung lacked the power to destroy Mijak. Was that a lie?”

In a single, self-controlled movement Han rose from the deck so they were standing face-to-face. His dark eyes were furious and despairing. “You call an emperor of the Tzhung a liar? Foolish girl. I could kill you where you stand.”

“Don't bother,” she retorted, glaring, refusing to be intimidated. “It seems Mijak will do your killing for you, soon enough. But you needn't worry. You and your witch-men can blow yourselves to safety whenever you like, can't you?”

Now Han's grief for Sun-dao was burned to ashes by anger. “If Sun-dao did this thing, if he called a storm, alone, he did so out of desperation. He did so out of love for me, his emperor, knowing he would die for calling it. As so many of our wind-brothers died holding back the trade winds for you. And yet you criticise the Tzhung? You call us cowards? Will we only be brave in your eyes when every last witch-man in the world is dead?”

Rhian held her ground, barely. “No, but—”

Han leaned towards her, his breath hot in her face. “You are mere flesh and blood, Rhian. You cannot see what we see, what we taste, what we smell, in the world beyond the world where the wind blows its witch-men. The stench of Mijak chokes every nation. It smothers, it suffocates, it turns the air to rancid blood.” He spat. “Would the Emperor of Tzhung-tzhungchai bend his knee to a girl-child of Ethrea, begging for help, if he had another choice? We do all that we can. We can do no more.”

The bitterness in his voice would curdle fresh milk. Rhian jabbed a finger in his chest. “This is your fault, not mine. You should've told me what you were planning, Han. You should've trusted me. If I'd known I would have helped and with my help perhaps Mijak would be in ruins even now, its empress dead, her son with his gauntlet of power dead, its warriors dead or at least in disarray. But no. You care more for your pride and your witch-man secrets than you do for winning this battle. So our chance – perhaps our only chance – is lost and while we float on the ocean throwing words at each other, the warships of Mijak are doubtless sailing towards us.”

“Trust?” said Han, and pointed at Sun-dao. “You speak of trust to me when my brother lies there dead and I must believe these men tell the truth of how he died? These men who will not answer you, who will not reveal how Sun-dao was burned? Your dear Mister Jones, he's the burning man of Ethrea. He burned your father's prolate. He burns for Ethrea's God.” Turning away from her, he advanced on Dexterity. “Did you burn my brother, toymaker? Did you kill him? Did you?”

Before Dexterity could deny it, or defend himself, Zandakar stepped forward, dragged Dexterity behind him and confronted Han himself. His hand reached inside his roughspun shirt and pulled out a knife, long and thin-bladed.

“No, don't!” shouted Dexterity, fumbling at Zandakar's arm. “Don't, Zandakar, don't, you'll only make things worse!”

Shouting. Confusion. A cold wind howled round them as Han's witch-men leapt to safeguard their emperor. The boat's sail began snapping, a sinister, menacing sound. Rhian felt herself flung aside as Alasdair sought to protect her. She hit the boat's railing and fell to her knees, pain jolting through her as she struck the shifting deck. Cursing, vision blurred, she struggled back to her feet.

The night was lit with strange blue fire. It came from Zandakar's knife, streaming wildly overhead as Dexterity hung from Zandakar's arm, still shouting. Alasdair – where was Alasdair? Rollin's mercy, he'd stood himself in front of the emperor. He was trying to shield Han with his own body. You dear fool. The boat was rocking violently, the witch-men's wind whipping the waves into a frenzy.

Lurching, staggering, she threw herself between them. Now Alasdair was shouting, torn between saving Han and saving her. Time to spare his torment. In a single swift move she unsheathed the blade on her hip and danced its point to Zandakar's throat.

“You've made of me a killing queen,” she said softly, staring into his pale blue eyes. “Shall I prove how well you've taught me?”

Frozen silence. The witch-men's wind died. Dexterity let go of Zandakar's arm and retreated. The wild blue flame faded. Rhian held out her hand.

“Give me that knife, Zandakar.”

She heard his stunned intake of air. “Rhian hushla—”

“Give me the knife!”

He placed the blade in her outstretched hand. She closed her fingers round its ugly hilt and stepped back, taking her own blade-point from his throat.

“Thank you.”

The moment he'd relinquished the blade its blue flame died. It was just a knife again, not worth looking at twice. She kept her gaze fixed to his face.

“Did you burn Sun-dao with this blade?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Zho.”

“But that's not what killed him,” said Dexterity. “On Hettie's grave, I swear it. It was the effort of reaching Jatharuj, and trying to call up that storm, then spiriting us away from Mijak's warriors before they could kill us, and then the murder of all those slaves. It was all those things, Majesty. Really, Sun-dao killed himself for us, and for Ethrea.” The strangest look flitted over his face. “He was a very brave man.”

She turned to Han. In his eyes, pain had drowned the anger. “Well?” she said. “Will you accept that as the truth?”

Han said nothing, only rested his gaze on his brother's still body. Waves slapped at the two Tzhung boats. An unsummoned breeze shivered the canvas sails. Then Tzhung-tzhungchai's emperor nodded.

“I will,” he said.

Rhian didn't dare glance at Alasdair, though she wanted to, badly. Her heart pounding so hard she felt sick, now she looked at the knife she'd taken from Zandakar.

Carved bone and forged steel, its oddly sinuous blade gleamed with a blue sheen. Its hilt was indeed ugly, carved like – like a scorpion. Horrible creature. She'd seen ugly knives before, though. This one was different. It was freezing cold in her grasp, and in her blood it sang for death.

Shuddering, she gave it back. Ignoring Alasdair's protest, the witch-men's hissing, she said, “Bring it to life again. Show me how it works.”

Zandakar turned. Pointed the knife at the boat he and Dexterity had sailed in. A thin stream of blue fire erupted from its point and struck the Tzhung vessel at its centre. A crack of sound. A flare of blue light. Blue flames rising to the stars. Then the Tzhung boat shattered in a rain of splinters and fire, hissing and dying as they struck the water.

What remained swiftly sank.

Rhian realised she'd cried out. Even Alasdair and Han had made a sound. But Zandakar was silent, and Dexterity appeared unsurprised.

She looked at him. “Mister Jones?”

“Do you remember what I told you of Garabatsas? The gauntlet Dmitrak wore? I think that gauntlet and this knife are somehow the same.”

Alasdair stepped closer, and stared at the blue-flickered blade. “Where did it come from?”

“Vortka,” said Zandakar.

Rhian frowned. “Why would he give you such a weapon?”

“I burned again in Jatharuj, Majesty,” said Dexterity. “Through me, God spoke to this priest. I don't know what I said, but I think Vortka gave Zandakar the knife because he wants to stop Mijak.”

“He didn't stop the murder of those ten thousand slaves, did he?” she snapped. “Are you certain he's going to be of any help?”

Zandakar stirred. “Vortka will try.” His fist struck his heart. “Vortka gajka.”

An odd look passed between him and Dexterity, then. “What?” said Rhian. “What haven't you told me?”

Dexterity fixed her with a clear, steady gaze. “Nothing, Majesty. Except – well – I went to Icthia with Zandakar willingly, because Hettie said I should. She said it was important. I think perhaps this knife is why.”

Hettie. Of course she's mixed up in this. Shoving her own blade back in its sheath, Rhian risked a glance at Alasdair and Han. They looked serious but not precisely disbelieving.

“Can that knife destroy Dmitrak's gauntlet?” said Alasdair.

Zandakar shrugged. “Wei know, Alasdair king.”

“But if you had to, could you use it against him? Against your own brother?”

Silence. Then he nodded. “Zho.”

Rhian stabbed Zandakar with another stare. “Can I trust you with it? Or should I treat you like a little boy who mustn't be left to play with knives?”

“Tcha!” said Zandakar, insulted. “You say?”

Alasdair rested his hand on her shoulder. “She does, and so do I. If you can't control your temper, Zandakar, hand the blade back to Queen Rhian.”

“Wei,” said Zandakar, and shoved the scorpion knife inside his shirt. “You trust. I say.”

Rhian turned to Han. “And you. You'll not use your witch-man powers to punish him for burning Sun-dao. I grieve for your brother, Han, and for you. But if we're to defeat Mijak we must stand side by side. I am tired of saying this. And I'm tired of being ignored. You say the wind sent you to me? Then hon-our the wind.”