The Merchant Emperor (62 page)

As he stared over the sea at the falling moon, he heard a sweet voice in his memory, as clearly as he had heard it on the other side of Time, so long ago, and his own in reply, so young then, so full of belief in the Future.

Sam?

Yes?

Do you think we might see the ocean? Someday, I mean.

Of course. We can even live there if you want. Haven’t you ever seen it?

I’ve never left the farmlands, Sam, never in my whole life. I’ve always longed to see the ocean, though. My grandfather is a sailor, and all my life he has promised me that he would take me to sea one day. Until recently I believed it. But I’ve seen his ship.

How can that be, if you’ve never seen the sea?

Well, when he’s in port, it’s actually very tiny—about as big as my hand. And he keeps it on his mantel, in a bottle
.

“I will remember Emily for you,” he whispered into the sea wind.

Then he drew his sword and walked over the sand, down to the smooth, wet threshold of lapping froth, into the rolling waves.

He did not look back.

59

PALACE OF JIERNA TAL, JIERNA’SID, SORBOLD

Long before Fhremus had even reached the tower staircase, Talquist knew he was coming.

The Merchant Emperor was standing in the early-morning light, a glass of sweet milky tea in his hand, looking east, watching a profusion of twisting smoke trails, tiny in the distance, curling toward the brightening sky. The corpulent clouds hanging high in the air above the destruction were bathed in the rosy colors of sunrise, in contrast with the gray-black haze that rose from the ground, almost like foggy remnants of insistent night refusing to be banished by daybreak.

Faron had consulted the scales, and had warned him of when the change in the battle outcome would occur, before the titan had left for Sepulvarta, so he had been expecting the news, though the sight was still disturbing.

He could be forgiven for the emotional reaction, the stomach clenching, the sweat prickling on the back of his neck.

Even if his rational mind knew better.

Fhremus’s footsteps were sounding now on the marble steps of the tower stairway.

Talquist took a sip of tea.

“Majesty?” Fhremus’s voice held a dread that made the emperor smile.

“Yes?”

“I regret to inform you that the forward line at Sepulvarta has been routed, m’lord, driven back to within the city walls, caught in a blockade by the forces of the Alliance.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

The supreme commander’s mouth snapped shut. For the span of fifty heartbeats he was silent. Then he summoned his voice.

“You had already heard, m’lord? How?”

Talquist’s smile grew broader as he took another draught of tea.

“I knew the date and the hour of the retreat a fortnight ago, before you deployed from Sepulvarta.”

“You—you did?” Fhremus was speaking slowly, because between his ears the world was turning at an odd angle.

“Of course,” Talquist said smugly. “Of course I knew, because it was the plan all along.”

“Our defeat was
planned
?”

“Yes. Would you like some tea, Fhremus? It’s really quite a lovely blend, from Marincaer. Has a touch of pepper in it, I think.”

The supreme commander put his hand for the first time on the railing of the stairway to steady himself as the emperor drained the rest of his beverage.

“Please—please explain, m’lord,” he stammered as the world continued to spin around him.

Finally the emperor turned away from the window and looked thoughtfully down the stairs at Fhremus.

“Taking Sepulvarta was, in addition to the opportunity to unseat the Patriarch, the establishment of bait,” he said gently, both amused and concerned at the look of shock on the supreme commander’s face. “I thought you knew that, Fhremus. I needed a reason for Anborn to withdraw the army of the Alliance from the northern citadels—Bethany, Bethe Corbair, Canderre, Yarim—leaving them vulnerable. He may have managed to protect the handful of farmers who live across the Krevensfield Plain, but he’s done it at the cost of his northern
cities
. As the moon disappears this night, the Icemen of the Hintervold, who have quietly been massing on the northern border of Roland, will advance while the Alliance lays siege to Sepulvarta, which is essentially an empty city to their south.” His words ground to a halt as laughter spilled out of his mouth at the evolving expression on Fhremus’s face.

“But m’lord—”

“The former Alliance garrisons in their northern provinces along the border have been emptied to support the cross-continental line of southern outposts, Anborn’s great Threshold of Death. Senile Cymrian fool! We have continued to prod those pathetic armed farming settlements with small iacxsis attacks to maintain his belief that the south was our target all along.”

Fhremus stared at him in silence.

“I’m sorry if I haven’t been clear in the planning stages,” Talquist said, turning back to the window. “The Diviner’s army will have little difficulty taking all of those former Alliance garrisons in the north while the Lord Cymrian’s forces are busy waiting for the all-but-empty holy city to surrender in the south. By the time they discover they are awaiting nothing, they will be trapped between the Icemen and the rest of your army, north and south, while the naval forces begin raining fire to cover the western advance from the sea.”

“Speaking of raining fire, m’lord, you do also know that Daystar Clarion has apparently entered the fray? That the iacxsis were blasted from the skies—”

“Of course. They were deployed specifically in Sepulvarta to bring the Lady Cymrian into battle.”

“Wh—if I might ask, m’lord,
why
?”

Talquist smiled broadly.

“Where do you suppose her child is now, Fhremus? Did she leave it in the care of the Bolg, or bring it with her? Either way, it will be in my hands soon. There will be an extremely fine bottle of twenty-year rum as a prize for whoever brings it to me first, you or Beliac. I told you that was my first priority, did I not?”

Fhremus said nothing, but his face went even paler than it had been when he had entered the stairwell. Finally he shook his head, as if shaking off a nightmare after waking from deep, disturbing sleep.

“Yes, m’lord. Orders?”

Talquist turned back to him slowly and smiled.

“Here are your orders, Fhremus, at least for today: take a few days’ leave. Go to the gypsy district or the flesh market and get yourself a nice bedwench or two, and then to the charcuteries or the smoke grills and have a fine supper. Sleep in tomorrow. Then come see me here at the beginning of the week, and we will set to planning the slaughter that is taking root nicely as we speak.”

“Yes, m’lord; thank you.” Fhremus bowed over a roiling stomach and waited until the Merchant Emperor had turned back once more to the window, then turned around himself and hurried down the staircase all the way to the first-floor entryway, where he ran to the front door of the palace and out into the clear air again.

Breathing painfully.

60

HIGHMEADOW, NAVARNE

“Sir?”

Gwydion Navarne looked up from the pile of battlefield communiqués littering Ashe’s desk. Manus Kral, the late Gerald Owen’s replacement stood at the study door, his shadow from the light sconces stretching behind him into the darkness of the hallway.

“Yes, Manus?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but only managed to sound far younger even than his years.

“King Achmed of Ylorc, sir.” Manus stepped aside, allowing Achmed entrance to the room, then bowed politely and closed the door behind him.

Despite the late hour, Gwydion’s young face broke into a grin of immense relief.

“Your Majesty! How good to see you. I’d no idea you had left Ylorc. To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

Achmed smiled slightly. The young duke of Navarne had aged a good deal since he had last seen him at his investiture, and though his dark hair looked nothing like his father’s, the expression in his eyes was a twin to what his father’s would have held. It gave the Bolg king the rare, pleasant sensation of being in Stephen Navarne’s presence again, if only for a moment.

“I need whatever intelligence you can provide about the Merchant Emperor,” he said bluntly. “Did Ashe leave behind any reports specifically about Talquist?”

Gwydion nodded as he rose from the desk.

“Indeed; he has quite a sheaf of documents, meticulously sorted by category. Wyrmkin apparently have an innate attention to detail that borders on obsessive.” He went to an armoire across the room and opened the doors, then pulled open a hanging file. He rifled through it, producing a fat leather portfolio a moment later, then crossed the room and offered it to the Bolg king.

Achmed accepted the file with a curt nod. He opened it and flipped through a number of the pages, then nodded again.

“If you would be good enough to wait a moment, I will summon Manus and set him to preparing a guest room and some supper for you,” Gwydion Navarne said. He started for the study’s door. “I don’t know if you heard; we lost our old chamberlain recently—he passed away a fortnight ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I am just passing through; I didn’t mean to disturb your review of maneuvers,” Achmed said uneasily.

The young duke’s smile faded. “It’s a pleasant diversion; the news seems to get worse each day. Much as battle is a terrifying experience, I think I am beginning to prefer it to the direction and coordination responsibilities that I have inherited from Ashe. It’s a mammoth undertaking; I don’t know how he kept all these details, all these fronts straight.”

Achmed’s dark face took on a small smile again.

“
Dragon
,” he said. “A word which in the Bolgish tongue translates directly as ‘pain in the arse.’ A synonym for ‘Cymrian.’”

“Ah, I see. So, can you stay the night at least?”

The Bolg king considered, then assented.

“Wonderful!” Gwydion said, his enthusiasm of a moment ago restored. Then a thought occurred to him. “Actually, I have a favor to request of you.”

Achmed dropped unceremoniously into a leather chair with the file. “Oh?”

“Yes, Ashe told me before he left that if you or any Dhracian were to pass through, to request that you look in on a prisoner who is incarcerated under heavy guard in the internal stockade. He said that person is suspected of being a demonic thrall, and hoped that you would be willing to make an assessment of whether that is true or not. My understanding, though it may be incorrect, is that through some sort of unscrupulous behavior, the prisoner was exposed to a F’dor’s host, but no one is certain if actual possession took place, and thus all efforts are being made to restrict movement and exposure until a reliable assessment can be made. If you can clear the prisoner of suspicion, we can relocate him to a lesser security setting until Ashe returns, or, if he doesn’t—” Gwydion’s throat went suddenly dry.

Achmed’s mismatched gaze settled on him; there was no real sympathy in it, but the look felt easy on the young duke nonetheless.

“At any rate, I don’t know who it is, I’m not even certain if it’s a man or woman,” Gwydion continued. “I think Gerald knew, but he didn’t say.”

“Rhapsody made the same request of me after she spoke to Ashe a while back,” Achmed said. “I don’t know what makes her think I have that ability; I don’t remember ever telling her that I did.”

“I think she trusts you as the ultimate authority on all things demonic, given your race. I know I certainly agree with her.” He smiled wryly. “But if you try and you are not certain, we can always wait until another Dhracian comes along. Or at least leave it for Ashe to deal with when he comes back.”

The Bolg king sighed and rose to a stand. “All right, let’s take care of it now. I need to be able to concentrate, undisturbed, once I begin reading the documents.”

“Very good. I’ll get the keys to the stockade cell, and on the way there I will get Manus started on your accommodations and your supper.”

*   *   *

The lights in the stockade stairway and under the cell door were still burning dimly as Achmed and Gwydion Navarne made their way down the stairs. The full contingent of guards had been moved to other posts within the stockade, leaving only the two heavy crossbowmen at either side of the cell door.