Arjuan hiDaranu of the Clan of the Victorious Globe was neither young nor handsome. He was certainly no match for the likes of Mrika, his new wife. His clan-elders had warned him against the marriage: the girl came from Hekellu in the far northeast, as far across the Empire from Tumissa as one could get, and her own Clan of the Barren Peak was unknown here. It was possibly not even a decent Tsolyani clan but one from the barbarous mountain tribes of Jannu or Kilalammu. Not a proper marriage at all, they said. But then Aijuan thought to detect a tinge of jealousy in their objections, just the sort of mix of envy and respect and recognition that made him suddenly stand out, no longer a balding, faceless scribe in the Palace of the Realm in provincial Tumissa, but someone to whom pretty women were attracted, a man whose talents were not all to be seen on the surface.
His clan-brothers told him he was a fool to wed one so young and so pretty. Mrika was Aridani, and once she had settled into Tumissan society-and tired of Aijuan-she would certainly go on to marry other, higher-placed, better looking, and younger husbands. Arjuan had no illusions; he was only a stepping stone-a fact he knew would one day cause him great pain. For now, however, Mrika was indisputably his bride. Men Looked after them and whispered admiringly. They attracted attention on the street, in the official receptions of the Palace of the Realm, in the temple of Lord Thumis, and everywhere they went together. For. the present he was happy to have her.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this marriage might revive Aijuan’s ailing career. Like an old and tattered scroll that is taken from its pigeonhole and given a new coat of shining varnish, he might still rise in the Palace of the Realm and be promoted to High Copyist when Genemu hiNayar, his superior, retired. (Already the old man had three young apprentices to clean up the blots and scrawls his aged fingers left behind!) With Mrika as the cynosure of all eyes, Aijuan could go on to Bey Sii, even to a post within the Chancery at Avanthar itself. A dream, indeed, but no longer just a fantasy to be yearned for in the grey hours before the Tunkul — gong called him to his morning chores at the scriptorium. The Weaver of Skeins might yet have a golden thread or two to spare for Aijuan hiDaranu.
Aijuan rattled the door-clappers. Mrika had not been well these last several days. Some depression, some nagging worry, had darkened her mood, and she had taken to lying abed longer than was her wont. Some slight by the gossiping, clacking wives of Aijuan’s colleagues, some female problem-he did not know, and she did not say.
The hook beside the door was empty; no Meshqu plaque hung there to inform visitors of the current disposition of the occupants of the house. Strange. No, worrisome. He fumbled with the latch and the door swung open. Mrika had not bothered to drop the bar from within.
The outer chamber was dim with the murky shadows of late afternoon. The acrid smells of inks and chemicals vied with the warm fragrances of reed-paper and Hmelu — parchment. Underlying all of these were the pleasantly remembered redolences of meats and spices and savoury cooking.
Aijuan left his sandals at the door and padded across to the dais upon which they sat to eat and rarely to entertain. It had only three tiers, as Mrika repeatedly reproached him, but was that not enough for a middle-level copyist of Imperial documents? A three-tiered dais was all they required to show respect to their social equals and to his immediate superiors; he could no more expect anyone higher as a dinner guest than he could hope for the company of the Lord Governor himself!
The silent room was oppressive. He stopped, hesitated in the middle of the floor, and bent to pick up a document. The scarlet and black scrollwork illuminations of the Temple of Lord Karakan were still not quite dry upon it.
The parchment drew his attention. What was it doing here? Mrika-? No, she had nothing to do with his work, and she was always tidy. She never asked, never pried, never read any of Arjuan’s tediously accurate accounts and records. He squinted. The paper was a requisition for scholars and materials for some projected voyage to Livyanu, and portions were in cipher-which Aijuan copied laboriously without knowing their contents. It bore the seal of one of Prince Eselne’s privy chamberlains. This was not at all the sort of thing one should leave lying about!
Concerned now, he went around the hearth to the door of their sleeping room. It was shut. More, it was barred from within, and no little Meshqu plaque hung here either to tell him Mrika was sleeping or indisposed. He tapped twice upon the panel, but there was no response. Again, louder. Then he tried the latch, but this time it was locked.
Was Mrika ill? Did she sleep so deeply, then? Worse, his little internal voice asked, had she left him? Was this the day he dreaded? He pounded on the door, then spent anguished minutes fishing for the latchstring with the key-rod that he kept hidden under the hearthstone.
The door opened upon blackness. Mrika always kept the one window covered against the midday blaze. She did not like sunlight and, like many girls of the lower clans who longed to be pampered aristocrats, strove to keep her complexion as pale as possible. It took more time for his eyes to adjust so that he could see what lay inside.
It was the smell that struck him first, however: an odour of milk gone bad, of spoiled food, of garbage left too long on a muddy riverbank. There was a huddled form beneath the clean Firya — cloth sheet upon the sleeping platform. Mrika must have been terribly sick, vomited perhaps, and then passed into unconsciousness.
He ran to draw back the sheet.
What he saw was so unexpected that he could make no sense of it at all. The fabric was stained with a greyish, milky mulch that stuck to his fingers. Beneath, scattered roughly in the shape of a human body, were objects, things that he could not recognise, strange lumps and wetly shining bluish-white blobs of a substance that resembled spoiled cheese! They stank, and they lay in a pool of pallid, oozing wetness.
Revolted to the core of his being, Aijuan thrust himself away, furiously wiping his hands upon his ink-stained kilt. He gagged and staggered from the room. When he could think again he found himself outside upon the hot flagstones of their clanhouse verandah, clutching his stomach and still vomiting into Mrika’s neat bed of Naludla-flowers.
His thoughts whirled round and round but always came back to the one logical conclusion. She had left him. She was gone. Certainly that was not Mrika there on the sleeping mat!
What else was possible?
Yet why? Why not tell him, at least? Why this awful affront to his dignity-the hideous, insulting mess upon their sleeping mat? He might not have been the most ardent of lovers, but that-! The humiliation was unbearable. He flung back his head, cursed, groaned, and beat his fists upon the damp stones.
Their neighbour, Betkanur hiFashan, found him thus, took him inside, cooled his brow with a damp cloth, gave him strong Dna — grain beer, and sent his little daughter scampering to the Temple of Lord Ketengku to summon the physicians.
By evening the tale of Mrika’s vanishing had spread. The city watch came with questions for him, and his superior, Genemu hiNayar, also arrived with a priest and two senior scribes from the Palace of the Realm. What had happened to Mrika was riddle enough, but these worthies were even more concerned about the copies of various documents-some important-in Mrika’s handwriting concealed within her gaily painted cosmetics box by their sleeping mat. And what was the amulet they found there, too? An amulet made of some pale, bone-like substance, covered all over with spidery writing in a tongue no one could identify? The script, opined one of the Genemu’s colleagues, was clearly nonhuman, but it was not of the Ahoggya, the Shen, the Pe Choi, the Mihalli, or even the dreaded Ssu.
Aijuan hiDaranu denied all knowledge of the affair. He begged them to find Mrika, but no one heeded him much. The priests, soldiers, and later a blue-and-gold uniformed officer of the Omnipotent Azure Legion only pestered him with serious-sounding inquiries about such matters as spies and agents, Yan Kor and Mu’ugalavya, and the like. He did not care. He pleaded ignorance, and eventually they all went away.
He curled himself into a ball upon Betkanur’s unfamiliar sleeping-mat and wept.
The drooping Ja'atheb — tree fronds sketched a ballet in silver silhouette above the Shadow Gods’ ponderous temple pyramids. It was not yet dawn, and the city of Tsamra still slept, although Siyuneb could hear the yawning, querulous voices of servants from the labyrinth of buildings and gardens below. The palace of her master, Lord Ketkorez Tanakku, was awakening.
She rose, as supple as a spray of Ja'atheb — blossoms herself, to wash away the telltale signs of their night of pleasure. The flower-filled pool that occupied a quarter of this, the topmost terrace was cool enough to sting her golden skin and drive away the fumes of the evening’s wine. Between the ornate columns, the pre-dawn breeze fluttered the Thesun-gauze draperies, brought from distant Tsolyanu, like the wings of little birds, and made the glass-chimes twitter and tinkle upon their tall poles at the comers of their couch.
Soon the sun would stride forth from the Halls of the Underworld to strip away Siyuneb’s illusions of youth and beauty. It were best if she were gone before then. The slight thickness beneath her chin, the delicate web of lines at the comers of her eyes, the too-ripe roundnesses of hips and thighs, all would be laid bare by the merciless glare of Lord Qame’el’s ball of pale flame.
Siyuneb slipped out of the filmy garments of Lord Ketkorez had chosen for her. She bathed completely and washed the sparkling Niritleb — powder from her hair. She also washed the curious implements that enhanced the joys of their coupling. With these-and with the arts her body knew-she could hold Lord Ketkorez for yet another year, two at most. After that she did not want to think. He might never reduce her to the ranks of the serving maids, but to live on in solitary comfort in some back apartment of the palace, to pass her days in gossip and idle make-work tasks, to grow old and fat and raise the children of some chamberlain or guardsman, was no life for one who had slept upon her master’s High Terrace!
Oh, there were other fates: she might become a priestess of Lord Qame’el: a functionary within one of the temples, glorying in each exercise of petty power; she might take the jewellery and gifts Lord Ketkorez had bestowed upon her and purchase a villa in some remote-and inexpensive-seaside town; she might become a courtesan, a shop-assistant for one of the mercantile clans-many things.
It took a great deal of self-control for her to bring herself back to the much more enjoyable present.
She stretched and spread her black mane to dry. The insect-netting was still closed; her master slept. Siyuneb sat down cross-legged upon the marble balustrade and ran the golden comb Lord Ketkorez had given her through damp-tangled locks. The lines of red and blue tattooed Aomiiz upon her wrists caught her eye. She was not allowed the symbols of an aristocratic clan and a high position within the temple hierarchy, mayhap, but her present status as First Concubine was not without its rewards. It was a far cry from her peasant forebearers, she thought: better the lady of a great aristocrat than a farmer’s wife with no tattooing other than the mud of the fields and the wrinkles of a life of toil.
She was awakened from her revery by Chakkunaz, the least obnoxious of Lord Ketkorez’ body-servants. He was both young and well-made, and his infatuation for her was no secret. Her master was not unkind; he turned a blind eye to an occasional dalliance, and she had wheedled more favours from Chakkunaz than even Lady Lailueb, the Chief Wife. Certainly Chakkunaz was more to her taste than Esudaz or Qelyuz or any of the other chamberlains. She carefully refrained from comparing him, even to herself, with Lord Ketkorez. Her master might be as young, as learned, as mannered, and as well turned out as any noble in the Five Empires, but he lacked a certain fire; he was a trifle cold, indifferent, and hard to arouse. He had been thus, the old crones of the palace said, ever since he had turned eighteen, after some sort of undiscussed accident in the mountains near the city of Dlash. Lately Lord Ketkorez had seemed preoccupied and even less susceptible to her wiles than usual. It was this that made Siyuneb’s array of special implements so necessary.
“He is not awake, lady?”
“He has not moved since I arose. The wine and the drug-powders and all of Retumez’ greasy cooking last night…” Chakkunaz pulled the netting aside. He bent over the sleeping figure on the dais, and the red-dawning sun upon his muscled shoulders awakened desire within her. She would have summoned him and whispered of an assignation later, but his stance gave her pause. The young chamberlain stood frozen, astonishment-shock-apparent in the lines of his back, even though she could not see his face.
“Siyuneb,” he called softly. “Come here.”
She did not protest the use of her personal name as she might otherwise have done. His tone told her that there was something very wrong.
She obeyed. He had pulled back the coverlet, and at first she thought that Lord Ketkorez was not there at all, that he had risen and departed in the night. Then she saw what lay on the patterned mat: glistening mucus, a heap of chalky, yellowish-bluish-white wet things. A parody of a human shape, a mass of garbage-what was it? A prank? Lord Ketkorez never played pranks, nor did she ever recall seeing him smile spontaneously.
“Lady, what occurred last evening?” Chakkunaz backed away. He held his nose.
“Naught unusual. We made love, we feasted-”
“Nothing else? No one came? No sorcerer visited here?”
“No-He was moody and wanted no guests. Why?”
“There are stories afoot in the quarters-tales of others who vanished this very night. A general of one of the legions, a merchant from the Plaza of the Diadem of White, a priestess from the temple of Kirrineb, a pair of traders in the Foreigners’ Quarter, servants, clansmen-at least a dozen…”
“What? Like this? Is that-is that-stuff-Lord Ketkorez?” “The Gods know. It is the same elsewhere. So run the wagging tongues.”
“Call the guards-!” Siyuneb started toward the staircase that led down from the terrace. There would be a squad of soldiers on duty below.
“Yes-no! Wait. You were the last to see him before-before this. The Vru’uneb will take you to the temple. You will be questioned-as many others have been already.”
“What to do?” A knot of panic was forming just under her heart. “I know nothing. I swear-I had naught to do with it-with this.” The sight and smell of what might have been Lord Ketkorez made her queasy.
Chakkunaz straightened up. “You must take what you can and flee.” His tone was hard and crisp. “Get your jewellery, all of your money, the best of your things-I will accompany you as far as the harbour. There are ships there for other lands-Tsolyanu, Mu’ugalavya-even the nations of the Shen.”
She began to quake. The horror of her situation was only now beginning to seep into her limbs, a dank and deadly feeling, like a bath in cold oil. The disappearance-or death-of a great nobleman, and she his sole companion, the last to see him alive…?
“You-would you go farther-come with me?” She lacked the courage to go alone.
He gave her an appraising look. “I-might.-Yes, why not? What have I here? And we have-cared-for one another.”
She knew him all too well. He might be as greedy as Demon Prince Origob himself, but she thought she could manage him. She must have someone!
Chakkunaz came to her and embraced her easily. “Do not fear, lady-my love-for I shall protect you. We must move quickly and with all of the circumspection of the gods themselves!” Frantically, shivering with a terror she could neither explain nor master, Siyuneb allowed herself to be led down to her apartments within the palace. A bundle of clothing, her money, and her jewels were all Chakkunaz let her take. Then they departed by the back gate, ducking between the lumbering Chlen- carts full of the day’s supplies for the palace kitchens. The Feather-kilted cooks and naked slaves paid them scant attention.
The Vru’uneb-, the ever-efficient arm of the Livyani theocratic state, the iron dagger beneath the silken coverlet, apprehended them just after they had purchased passage on a round-hulled merchantman bound for Jakalla.
Siyuneb never saw Chakkunaz again, nor was she told what had become of him. The heavy coins he had carried for her vanished as well. Yet she herself was treated with all the deference due a First Concubine, and no one touched the jewels she wore. A cold-eyed captain and a trio of ebon-robed hierophants questioned her politely but at length. Hours, days-months? — passed; she had no idea of time within the blind walls of Lord Quame’el’s inner temple. Her interrogators advised her not to return to Lord Ketkorez’ palace, not to meddle, never to seek to learn what had occurred. She should go back to her village in the Tlashte Heights and find her clansmen. Her gems would buy a little house, a patch of garden, and a decent husband; then she must make her peace with Lord Qame’el, devote herself to His worship, and grow old as gracefully and inconspicuously as possible.
That was all. She was free.
One thing she remembered from the dreary, anxious hours of her interrogation. It was just a word, one she did not know: He’esa. Her questioners asked her repeatedly and interminably about that, but she could only shake her head.
What was a He'esal She never dared to ask.
In Jakalla the city watch reported that one Dlamu hiTranukka, a rascal who dealt in gems and other curios, had disappeared. Only his much overworked staff thought to ask what the mess was that someone had thrown down upon the floor of his strongroom. He had no strong clan affiliation, no family, and hence his presence was not much mourned. His wealth, on the other hand, proved most useful: it provided the barristers of the Palace of the Realm with cases, claims, and counter-claims for years to come.
Three scribes who served General Kadarsha hiTlekolumii, of the Tsolyani Imperium’s Legion of the Searing Flame, vanished as well. They were serious, conscientious, unassuming workers, and he briefly mourned their loss. He mentioned the matter to his master, Prince Mirusiya, one of whose adherents he was, but the Prince only remarked that some of his own people had suddenly become ill and died, too, quite unaccountably. General Kadarsha’s physician and sometime house-wizard, Eyloa, consulted his tomes and suggested the possibility of a new form of the terrible Ailment of Arkhuan Mssa. For several days thereafter Eyloa appeared more than usually grim and morose, which was odd even for an eccentric philosopher such as he.
Several servitors of the Vriddi clan of Fasiltum perished mysteriously, as did a half dozen subalterns and junior officers of the Legion of Victorious in Vimuhla, one of Mu’ugalavya’s elite units. An Ahoggya village chief in Salarvya, a Shen egg-layer in Mmatugual, a handful of Pygmy Folk in the subterranean den-city situated on the eastern border of Yan Kor-all did the same. In Yan Kor itself, the clever young master of the Clan of the High Spires of Riilla was found to be missing, and the matriarchs of the clan hastened to marry his plump widow to his younger cousin, a simpleton far more amenable to decent female management than he had been!
The Lord Staffbearer of the Palace of Effulgent Radiance in Saa Allaqi discovered raddled garbage, like the intestines of an animal, in the beds of three princelings of the blood. Frightened, he reported only that these youths had fled, perhaps apprehensive of some plot by their siblings. The Ssao, King of Saa Allaqi, sent forth a summons to the other thirty or so of his offspring-as many as he could remember. All responded save the Princess Vrissa, perhaps twenty-fourth in line, who was off seeing the world somewhere and could not be reached.
Although no count was ever made, the diligent scribes of the Palace of the Realm in Bey Sii estimated that, all across the Five Empires, perhaps five or six hundred (a thousand, whispered some) persons-human and nonhuman alike-died during the Night of the New Ailment of Arkhuan Mssa. There was anxiety for a time, but when the plague ceased and did not reappear, the matter was filed away. More important doings were afoot, and only a few of the presumed victims were anybody important anyway.
Eventually the Omnipotent Azure Legion presented a thick sheaf of reports to Lord Chaimira hiSsanmirin, the High Prefect of the Chancery of Avanthar. In turn, that worthy laid these before the Servitors of Silence, who guarded the Emperor in the Golden Tower. An edict was subsequently issued commanding greater sanitation throughout the cities of Tsolyanu. A council of scholars and priests and physicians was later called into secret session, nevertheless, in the Hall of the Petal Throne itself.
The results of this conference were not made public.
A hundred lumbering Chlen — beasts pulled the wagon. The dust of their passing was a dun-coloured cloak spread over the sere wastelands of the western marches of the Desert of Sighs. Upon the cart rode the Baron’s “Weapon Without Answer”: a cube the size of a small house, swathed all in black cloth. Worked upon the fabric in silver and green were the insignia of Yan Kor, of the Gods of the north, and of the promise of death to all the Baron’s foes. Ten pairs of wheels, each two man-heights tall and a quarter of a man-height thick, groaned and screamed and jolted upon the rough stones. The wagon was far too large to travel upon the Sakbe road that ran from the city of Hlikku in Yan Kor southwesterly to Khirgar and thence into the rich Tsolyani heartland. A full thousand masons and carpenters and labourers toiled in advance of the column beside the road to make a way for it.
Two contingents of green-clad troops flanked the march: the elite First and Second Legions of Mighty Yan Kor. Three more Legions preceded the grumbling wagon; still others followed. An auxiliary Cohort of Hlaka scouts, the little flying nonhumans from beyond Kilalammu in the distant northeast, swooped and soared overhead, their ribald chittering drifting down the wind.
From a vantage point upon the highest level of the Sakbe road one could see all of the long serpentine columns: the scurrying insects around the ebon block that was the “Weapon”; the dark squares beyond that were phalanxes of marching soldiers, arms and legs flashing in jerky unison; the hordes of camp followers; the Chlen — carts laden with arms and supplies and waterskins; and the smaller bodies of scouts and stragglers and local tribesmen, all the way to the horizon; all rolling inexorably on toward Khirgar as the sea-tide rolls up onto the sand.
The central column, that containing the “Weapon,” had halted. No one yet knew why. The flanking contingents continued to trudge on by, and clusters of officers and aides and General Ssa Qayel’s elite guardsmen leaned down from the Sakbe road parapets to see.
The ponderous wagon that bore the “Weapon” now stood immobile in the drifting dust, surrounded by swarms of soldiers, Chlen- handlers, and hangers-on. The subaltern who had clambered up to the third tier of the Sakbe road to fetch Lord Fu Shi’i shouted, mopped the sweat from his brow, and waved his pennoned lance, but the crowd only milled about, muttered, and gawked. Their numbers grew by the moment.
Lord Fu Shi’i pushed aside the flap of thick cloth that concealed the entrance to the little chamber within the “Weapon” and came out to stand upon the little platform at the rear of the great cart. His expression was bland and pleasant as always, but lines of strain showed around his clean-shaven mouth, and his eyes were cold and furious.
The officer behind him in the passage held a comer of his mantle over his nose. He said, “Lord, the damage? Shall we summon General Ssa Qayel and Lady Mmir? The army-’ ’
“Not yet. Go away. Leave me to assess the matter.-Yes, halt the legions, bivouac here for the night, and get rid of these people.”
“There is no water here, Lord. We had planned to reach the village of Tnektla by sundown.”
“Sink the village of Tnektla into the sand! Do as I say. And send me the scribe Truvarsh. A report must go this very day to Baron Aid in Ke’er.”
The man sketched a tired salute and climbed down the ladder into the crowd. His emerald crest renamed visible above the cylindrical helmets of the troopers for a time, like a beetle surrounded by a horde of Drz'-ants. Lord Fu Shi’i stared after him, then went back within.
The damage was certainly done. It was far more serious than the legion captain could have suspected. Beyond the still-smoky outer corridor, in the control chamber that lay within the heart of the “Weapon,’ were five heaps of grey-white putrescence, puddles of thick mucus, and a smell that made Lord Fu Shi’i gasp. Worse, however, were the silence and the darkness. The soft humming of the “Weapon” had ceased. The banks of little purple lights, so deep in colour that one could hardly say when they were lit, were black and vacant. Some were charred. Sadly, Lord Fu Shi’i touched a slender hand to a lever, as those who had supplied the “Weapon” had instructed. Nothing resulted. “Lord.” It was the scribe, Truvarsh.
“Come within. We summon a conference.”
“Others may see.” The man’s eyes glinted ruby-red in the hot light reflected from the vestibule.
“None dare enter here. And we will not be long.”
The scribe wavered, flickered, and became a furred, longsnouted creature, a Mihalli. It drew forth a translucent sapphire sphere from within its mantle: a “Ball of Immediate Eventuation,” the special other-planar tool of its race. It concentrated.
They stood upon a glassy plain.
The sky was of no colour, the landscape flat and weirdly foreshortened. Myriad pale tendrils, vines of white that bore no fruit and had never known sun or rain, emerged from a single point beyond the horizon to writhe across this plain and disappear here and there into what might have been the ground. Every one of these filaments was withered, shrivelled, curled, and dead.
“Not here,” said Lord Fu Shi’i, a trifle sadly. “Not where ‘Those Who Are Seen and Yet Remain Unseen’ have perished. The vines that bloom as men on other Planes are gone.”
The Mihalli nodded and bent over its globe again.
They stood in the place that was not a place, where little beads of light darted to and fro like fish within a turgid pool. A figure glowed before them, its edges brightening first, then its centre filling in with colour and detail, as dye seeps into a length of fabric. A second appeared.
“My Lord Prince. Lord Baron.”
“Four of my personal staff are gone. Others are missing,” Prince Dhich’une said curtly. “This means that the priest-boy has won through.”
“So it is. Half a dozen of my people are piles of rotting curds too-not even the Dlaqo — beetles will eat the stuff.” Baron Aid sat down upon the dais that the Mihalli produced before him. He wore no armour but a hunting costume of green leather.
Lord Fu Shi’i shrugged, gracefully. “All of the Goddess’ minions, her He’esa, are severed from our Plane. Without the umbilical cord that sustains them from Her Plane, they perish. The Man of Gold has wrought as its ancient makers intended. We came to the feast tardily and brought too little food.” He carefully forebore from mentioning that this had been the decision of his master.
“Our agents-my Vridekka?” Prince Dhich’une asked.
“We have heard nothing,” Lord Fu Shi’i cupped a hand and turned it over, a sign that any player of Den-den would recognise as one of surrender. “Our Mihalli in Purdimal-gone beyond this Plane, out of reach of contact. All of our people there as well. Some must be dead, others taken.”
The Baron spat a string of crackling oaths in his own fierce northern tongue. “And my ‘Weapon’?”
“Cut off as the He’esa were, master. All of the Goddess’ entrance points are gone, sheared away as a butcher cleaves the head from a Hmelu with his axe. No force penetrates now from Her Plane into ours.”
“Cha! What’s to do?”
Prince Dhich’une said, “Continue to advance the ‘Weapon,’ of course. Who is to know that it-temporarily-no longer functions.”
“All too many know, mighty Prince. Half the army saw the smoke billowing from the door. The officer who entered it to investigate will tell his tale. It will be old gossip by nightfall.
Spies in the camp-Tsolyani, Milumanayani tribesmen, and others- wi ll carry it to Prince Eselne within the six-day.” “Repair it. Restore the access points.” The Baron clenched brawny fists upon his knees.
“That can be done, master. But it will take time to find another path through the Planes Beyond, one that the Man of Gold does not block. Then will come the work of building connections, replacing the key people with the Goddess’ He’esa, as was done before.”
“Do you tell me that it will again take as mamy months- years-as it did to progress this far?” The Baron thundered. He leaped to his feet, and the place that was not a place trembled and quavered. The Mihalli looked over at him in silent reproach.
“We can still defeat the Tsolyani,” Lord Fu Shi’i murmured silkily. “We have the troops, the military skill-your own great skill, Lord-and your high determination.”
“Gull me not, man! It was risky enough with the ‘Weapon,’ but well you know that the Tsolyani have thrice the legions we can muster-older, better trained, more cleverly generalled! Serve me no Ahoggya piss in place of wine!”
Fu Shi’i bowed his sleek head before his master’s wrath. This, too, would pass.
“And what of me?” Dhich’une broke into the brittle silence. “What of our plans-your promise to relieve certain of my siblings of life? Who now will smooth away my opposition in the Kolumejalim? Well you know that I cannot face my half-brothers in all of the tests that comprise the ‘Choosing of Emperors!’ The He'esa were to-”
“The Gods know that you cannot surpass even your silly half-sister, Ma’in Kriithai! Not even if the sole contest were to get yourself successfully sodomised by a Shen!” The Baron paced to and fro. He threw off the fingers Fu Shi’i laid upon his arm. “Go! Resign the ‘Gold!’ Hide in your worm-riddled City of Sarku! Forget the Petal Throne or else learn swordsmanship and agility and those other arts that will be tested! Hire champions-!” He snorted. “Cheat!”
The skull-painted face was unreadable. “I will hear no more, barbarian. Now will I let Eselne and Mirusiya crush you, defeat your puny armies, and skewer you upon a pole, just as General Kettukal’s man Bazhan did to your foolish fish-wife Yilrana! My half-brothers will slay you, and you will weaken them just enough to allow me to come forth again as the heir to my father’s Empire! When you are done chewing upon one another like an arena-pit full of Mnor, I shall be there, Baron, to claim my patrimony.”
Baron Aid would have drawn the steel dagger that hung at his belt, but there was no substance here in this place that was not a place. He turned his back to conceal his rage.
Prince Dhich’une gestured and was gone.
“And you!” Baron Aid fixed his baleful gaze upon Fu Shi’i. “You are correct at least in one matter. Turn the ‘Weapon’ around, back to the City of Hlikku! Call up more troops, order the manufacture of weapons, build me more armies. My vengeance will not be gainsaid. Time it may take aplenty, yet indeed we shall defeat the Tsolyani, and it shall be by the victory of our arms alone! No more of these magical meddlings, no more pacts with slimy things from beyond our Plane! A pox upon the Goddess…!”
“As you decree, my master.” Lord Fu Shi’i sighed. Halting the army and trudging back along the dreary road through the barrens to Hlikku would be a thorny conundrum in logistics and supply. There would be problems of politics and diplomacy as well. But there was no help for it.
More, both he and Baron Aid knew that Yan Kor had little chance of defeating the ponderous might of the Seal Emperor. Armies? Weapons? A Tsolyani torrent against the petty rivulet of Yan Kor!
No, now he must hone another sword, work another plan, set a different snare. His own masters, those of whom he did not like to think even in his sleep, would not be pleased, but they were more patient than this thick-brained Zrne of a man.
They would wait.
He signed to the Mihalli, and once again the place that was not a place was empty of all life-or at least of that which men might recognise as such.