Heir of Iron (The Powers of Amur Book 1) (31 page)

“So you don’t know who I am.”

“You’re a young woman who eloped. I did what I was asked. Whatever problems you’re having now—”

“No, listen. You don’t know
who
I am. Don’t be ashamed, that’s why I chose you.”

He looked nervously over Mandhi’s shoulder at the door behind her. “Why?”

“My name is Mandhi. Cauratha was my father.”

His face convulsed with an expression of horror and confusion. For a moment he was silent, his face slack with amazement, then he said, “Are you—stars in heaven, no.” He bent over at the waist and put his hands over his head. “Are you saying that I helped the
Heir’s daughter
elope?”

“Exactly. And soon all of the saghada of the city will know who I am, and they will probably be upset to find out that you were so reckless.”

“So your brother is the Heir-to-be who seized the city from Thudra?” Ghauna’s straightened and looked at Mandhi with his jaw slack, seeming as if he were about to vomit. “He could strip me of my livelihood—”

Mandhi smiled. “He could purge you from the Uluriya altogether.”

“Ulaur, purify me.” He collapsed into the seat he had offered Mandhi a moment ago. “What can I do?”

“Don’t be so despondent, for one.” She glanced over at the woman and the child, both of whom now watched with open amazement. “Stand up. Your family is watching. I’m here to help both of us.”

He straightened cautiously. “What do you mean? I can’t risk the displeasure of your brother Navran.”

“That’s exactly the point, actually. Navran is not my brother.”

He gaped at her in bafflement. “I don’t understand.”

“Ghauna, I need you to be a little cleverer than that.” She leaned forward and beckoned him closer. She whispered, “Navran is not my brother, because Navran is not Cauratha’s son. We believed him to be my lost older brother, but when we were returning from Majasravi we found otherwise. He is not my brother.”

Ghauna gaped at her. “But he’s going to be proclaimed as Heir. The summons went out to the saghada today. Why does nobody know this? We have to tell them.”

“No.” She reached forward and grabbed Ghauna’s forearm. “We don’t tell anyone, at least not yet. For now, at least, Navran is the legitimate Heir. The Law states that in the absence of a living son, the Heir may name any Uluriya male born from an Uluriya mother as his successor. Now it may be the case that Navran is a drunk, a gambler, and a traitor.” Ghauna’s eyes grew wide at this revelation. “But I want him to be named Heir, at least until he can name as his successor a true Uluriya, one who won’t ruin the ancient traditions and bring shame upon the name of Ulaur.”

“You mean your husband. But he—”

“My husband is dead.” She clamped down on the surge of sorrow that the words brought up. “I mean my child.”

Ghauna looked at her for several long minutes as he slowly worked through the implications of what she was saying. “I presume that the child was conceived with the Kaleksha while he was alive.”

Mandhi sniffed. “I’ll forgive you for thinking it could be otherwise.”

“And how do you intend to make your child the Heir? Once Navran is acclaimed the inheritance of Manjur can’t be taken from him.”

“He will give it to me. And for that, I’ll need your help.”

Ghauna clenched his jaw and shook his head. “You ask me to commit treason against the Heir.”

“No, I demand that you show allegiance to the true Heir, who is yet to be born. Or do you want this false leader, without the blood of Manjur, a despicable coward, to continue to lead the Uluriya?”

Ghauna’s expression grew darker as Mandhi talked, and his hands formed into fists. But he said nothing.

Mandhi lowered her voice. “And in any case, you’ll find it convenient to have the Heir’s mother on your side.”

“It was a mistake to marry you in the first place,” Ghauna said. He shook his head. “I can’t work against the Heir again.”

“You also can’t afford to have your previous bad judgement made public.” Ghauna flinched. “And of course, you have to remember the good of all of the Uluriya. Navran is leading us into ruin. He has no way to break the siege or restore the Kingdom. If the Heirs survive, it’ll be through me.”

Ghauna put his hand over his eyes and sighed. After a long moment of silence he said, “What do you want me to do?”

“On the day of the acclamation, I’ll tell you. For now, wait.” She glanced out the door of the balcony. “When the time is right to act, I’ll tell you.”

A motley crew set out from the old palace of Thudra, dressed in three colors with no unity of style. The mismatched, haphazard style of the march was oddly comforting to Navran. He was a misfit, unqualified and unwilling for his role. Yet he marched to be acclaimed Heir of Manjur, and they marched with him.

The first company was Sadja’s militia from Davrakhanda, the best-trained and most neatly dressed, in green with the sea-eagle crest on their shoulders. The second company was the Uluriya volunteers which Veshta had recruited for Navran’s guard, clad in bleached white cloth, but with no other consistency of uniform. The last were in the clothes of the militia of Virnas, the remnants of Thudra’s garrison who had surrendered and pledged fealty to Navran.

Navran-dar.
Now
that
was a name he had never expected to answer to.

They began at Thudra’s palace, which had become a barracks for Sadja’s troops and the Uluriya guard. The route of the procession from the palace of Virnas to Veshta’s estate was lined with people, both Uluriya and others, and cheers sounded as they passed.

Sadja marched next to Navran looking thoughtful. “Not as few as I feared, but not as many as I hoped,” he said.

“No trouble in the city,” Navran said. “Good enough.”

“Enough to hold out,” Sadja said. “Beyond that….”

There had been skirmishes with Thudra’s and Ruyam’s troops along the walls every day, but they had ended with a handful of arrows fired. No one had assaulted the city’s gates. If the desultory siege so far was all that Thudra and Ruyam would do, then Virnas might indeed outlast the besiegers.

Navran laughed bitterly into his beard. Ruyam would not let him escape so easily, and eventually their own supplies would run out.

But Sadja had said repeatedly in the past days, “Kill the cobra in front of you and leave the one on the road.”

And so he had. In the past five days, he and Mandhi had undergone a series of specialized ablutions, first to atone for the debt of purity they had accrued from so many days sleeping in impure environments, and then, for Navran, to prepare him for his acclamation as Heir. He regarded these onerous rituals with a measure of alarm, but said no word as the eldest saghada of the city bathed him, then doused him with myrrh and repeated an hour of prayers, then bathed him again. The saghada bound silver coins to his wrists, wrapped him in new white cloth, undressed him, and told him to repeat the whole process again the next day.

That was not the first time he had wished that someone else would be Heir, but it was the first time that he felt like Mandhi sympathized with him.

Sadja opened his mouth to say something then stopped. He pointed to the south. “Something is happening.”

Navran followed Sadja’s finger with his gaze. Several people were running towards the route of their march. Farther away on the same road approached a chaotic mass of people, advancing with deliberate slowness, but churning and choking the road as they approached.

Sadja spun and snapped at the captain of his forces, who walked a few paces behind them. “Bhargasa, find out what is going on.”

Bhargasa nodded and broke from the rank, running to meet the forefront of the march. Sadja and Navran did not break pace, and so for a few moments Bhargasa was lost to their view as he disappeared down the street towards the disturbance. But a short time later he returned, running to catch up with them. Sadja stopped to allow his captain to speak.

“My lord and king,” Bhargasa said, “dire news. There is a riot is the East Quarter. The rioters approach from the south.”

“What do they want?” Sadja said.

“I don’t know.”

“And the east gate? Is it closed?”

“I don’t know.”

Sadja clenched his jaw together. “Call a general halt. Take half of the garrison and reinforce the east gate. I will lead the rest out to put down the riot.” He glanced at Navran then said, “You go ahead to Veshta’s with your Uluriya. Finish your business there.”

Navran’s heart thundered in his chest. Maybe it would be wise, to go to a safe place with his people. But maybe he owed the city more. “Is the city mine?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

Navran gestured at the streets around them. “Would you hide from a riot if this were Davrakhanda?”

Sadja scowled. “Are you saying you want to come with? We can’t risk it.”

“If they’re rioting against my rule, let me face them myself.”

Sadja raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps that’s wise. Come with me, and I’ll give you a sword.”

Sadja bellowed for a man of his company of similar size to Navran. One shortly appeared, and in quick order stripped off his panoply and handed Navran a sword. Navran took the weapon with a feeling of trepidation, waving it from side to side and feeling how the weight shifted in his hand. It was heavier than he expected.

“Don’t think you’re going to use that much,” Sadja said. “You haven’t been trained. Let the threat of it do your work for you. Let the men see you carrying it. Now boy, help the Heir put on his armor.”

“Yes, Sadja-dar,” the boy answered. In a moment he had strapped Navran into a wooden helmet and a breastplate of quilted leather reinforced with bronze straps. It was uncomfortable, but he could move freely. In a moment he forgot the awkward way that the breastplate encumbered his breathing and the wood pressed into his head.

Sadja nodded at Navran’s armor. “You’ll survive the day, I hope.” Then Sadja widened his stance and shouted, “Good men of Davrakhanda and faithful Uluriya! We go to put down a riot within our city. I lead you myself, and the Heir of Manjur will run with us into battle!”

A cheer rose up from the companies around them. Sadja waved his arms for silence then shouted again, “Form up with your captains. As soon as there is order, we march out.”

For a few minutes there was chaos as the narrow, orderly marching lines were reassembled into actual military formations. Navran stayed next to Sadja. He had no idea what the order of battle was, or if an action to put down a riot could even be considered a battle. As soon as the first ranks of the companies had passed them, Sadja marched forward so his banner stood at the head of the line. The captain and the ranks of the first company marched ahead of him.

Shouts filled the streets. As the militia advanced, the people who had come for the acclamation scattered off the road and into the alleys and gutters. Catcalls and grumbles assaulted them from scattered places. Navran clutched the hilt of his sword and kept his eyes ahead. These were the outliers. A few hundred paces ahead of them was the main body of the rioters, and the militia marched ahead to them.

“Halt,” Sadja called when they were thirty paces away. The men at the front of the mob held torches, long knives, and a few tarnished spears. They drew together into a solid line, with a chaotic mass of shouting and jeering behind them. They made no move to attack Sadja’s men.

“Men of Virnas!” Sadja called out. “What is the meaning of this disorder?”

“Death to the false Heir!” one of the torch-wielding men in the front shouted.

“The Heir is with me,” Sadja said, “well-guarded and equipped to fight. He saves your city from the fire of Ruyam. Submit to him for your own sakes.”

“Let him speak!” another man shouted. But his demand was drowned out by a mass of people behind them yelling
Death to the false Heir
and
We do not submit
. Navran’s stomach sank and he felt his palm grow sweaty against the hilt of the sword.

“Quiet!” Sadja screamed. The shouting of the mob did not abate, but the leaders at the front stopped yelling. “Cease this rebellion at once, or the militia will cease it for you. This is your only chance to recant.”

One of the leaders stepped forward and raised the torch above his head. He had a full beard but a shaved lip. The man was Uluriya. Navran’s blood grew leaden.

“We will not follow the false Heir, the Heir who is not a son of Manjur,” the man said. “Turn him over to us, and we will deal with him justly.”

“By betraying him to Ruyam?” Sadja snorted. “That is not justice.”

“And what do you know, Sadja-dar, of the man you support as Heir?” The man looked through the crowd and spotted Navran. He pointed the torch at Navran. “This is not the one we will submit to. Give him to us.”

Navran’s heart shuddered, and his hands shook. If the Uluriya turned against him, then he had failed, whether he escaped Ruyam or not. His face felt like an icy mask.

But Sadja seemed not to notice. “You will be cut down,” Sadja said. He looked at the militia arrayed behind him. “Attack, and spare none who resist.”

The eyes of the Uluriya man grew wide, and he threw his torch onto the roof of the nearest building, where the palm thatch burst into flame. Sadja’s men charged, and the mob began to scream and retreat. Sadja grabbed Navran’s hand.

“Come,” he said insistently. “If you’re here, you should be seen fighting.”

They ran into the mob, which scattered like sheep before a tiger. Stones and torches were hurled out of the riot, striking harmlessly against the ground and hitting one soldier in the face. The soldiers ran forward, spearing rioters who couldn’t flee quickly enough. Navran ran, following the line of battle between the mob and the militia.

He nearly tripped over a body that lay bleeding in the middle of the road. The man groaned and screamed when Navran’s foot hit him. His gut had been split by a spear, and his entrails spilled out onto the road.
Ulaur, purify.
Navran ran forward.

A boy of thirteen was ahead of him with a rock, running away. He looked back once, spotted Navran, and with a sudden burst of courage turned and heaved the stone at Navran’s head. Navran ducked aside then swiped at the boy with the sword. The flat of the blade only slapped the boy’s calf, or so Navran thought, but the boy cried out and fell to the ground, revealing a long thin gash on the back of his leg. In a single long stride Navran reached the boy and put the sword to his throat.

The boy began to cry. “Leave me,” he said. “For Ulaur’s sake, leave me.”

“You’re Uluriya?” Navran asked. The furious energy of the fight was draining out his fingertips, and his hands began to shake.

“Yes. Please, please let me go.”

Navran looked around. Militia were running past him on each side, and Sadja with the banner was getting farther away as the militia cut through the unarmed rioters. If he left the boy, someone else would kill him. With a groan he reached down and picked up the boy by his collar and dragged him to the nearest building, a home painted with the tanner’s mark. He threw the boy through the curtain over the front door.

“Stay there!” he shouted. “And throw no more stones.” He ran to catch up with Sadja.

Sadja was standing in the center of the street with his sword dangling loosely from his fingers, watching the rest of his militia disperse into alleys and side-streets after fleeing rioters. The main body of the mob seemed to have dissipated, but the riot was not finished. From every alley came shouts and the sound of stones striking walls. Smoke rose from the fire on the roofs behind them, joined by blackening towers of smoke elsewhere in the city. Three dead bodies lay bleeding in the street. Two of them were Uluriya.

“Ugly work,” Navran said.

“It always is,” Sadja said. “But we’ve dispersed the main body. It’ll take hours to subdue the entire city.” He walked over to one of the dead and wiped his sword clean of blood on the dead man’s shirt.

Navran grunted. “The rioters were Uluriya.”

“Many of them certainly were.”

“Did you hear what they said?”

“What in particular?”

“They said I was not a son of Manjur,” he said in a low voice.

“The sort of thing that rioters say. Some years ago I had to put down a riot in the sailor’s quarter in my city, and my ancestry was described in the most creative and unlikely ways.”

Navran shook his head. “Uluriya were supposed to be
loyal
. I was to be acclaimed today.”

Sadja tapped the tip of his sword against the ground. “Something went wrong with that, obviously.”

A black suspicion crept up from the shadows of Navran’s thoughts. He should return to the estate soon. The saghada would still be there, and perhaps he could salvage something.

His train of thought was broken by the sound of footsteps pounding on dirt. A message boy wearing Sadja’s green appeared sprinting towards them on the main street. “Sadja-dar!” he shouted. “Sadja-dar!”

“What is it?” Sadja said.

The boy stopped and bowed to Sadja, gasping for breath. “Bhargasa sends news,” he said. “He says to bring reinforcements. Thudra’s men have broken through the east gate.”

They came upon the battle with no warning, just a sudden turn in the street and Thudra’s men were there with spears and swords brandished. There was a moment of surprise on both parts, as Navran’s and Sadja’s men startled at the sight of the invading militia, and Thudra’s forces gawked at the sudden appearance of a mixed company of Uluriya and Davrakhanda soldiers.

Sadja recovered first. “Spears about!” he shouted, and his men responded instantly. The points of their spears lowered, and they hunched together, shoulder to shoulder, forming a line across the wide east-bound street. The Uluriya irregulars filled in the gaps with their inexpertly pointed spears.

Navran scrambled to Sadja’s side behind the line of soldiers. He lifted his sword and glanced over to Sadja for reassurance.

“Put that down,” Sadja said quietly. “You’re not going to charge in there waving your sword around. Stay with me.”

The invaders were forming their own line, but they were a few moments too late. Sadja shouted, “Charge!”

The line of spears swept forward through the street. Navran ran behind them. The soldiers of the opposing line tried to hold their positions, but at the last moment several of them blanched and dropped their spears. The clash came as a chaos of grunting and the sound of metal against groan, and Navran lost all notion of the logic of the battle. Someone screamed. All around him bodies were moving. He raised his sword against a man who approached—he had no idea if it was friend or foe—but another spear caught the man in the side. A spray of blood splattered his face, and then Sadja’s voice bellowed, “Cease! Cease!”