Shadowrise (20 page)

“Over the centuries, as we moved into the cities, the relationship became more subtle and more complex, and sometimes the Falcon and the Kite, now called Autarch and Scotarch, were almost at war with each other, each with his own adherents, clans, and armies. After the first Xixian empire collapsed, the surviving clan leaders came together in the place where the city of Xis now stands and made the Laws of Shakh Xis. The most important of these set out the roles of the autarch and scotarch. Or am I telling you things you already know, Highness?” he finished amiably.

“Oh, no, please continue.”

“Good. So, the Laws of Shakh Xis set forth that the autarch shall always choose a scotarch, and that scotarch will never rule the Xixians unless the autarch dies, and then only until a council of the noble families can come together and approve the next autarch, who is almost always the heir of the autarch who just died.”

“That doesn’t seem too unusual,” said Olin. “We have similar laws in some of the March Kingdoms.”

“Ah, but it is when things are the other way around that the interesting part begins,” explained Vash. He glanced quickly at Prusus, but the scotarch seemed to have fallen asleep; a thin line of drool connected his lower lip and his collar. “If the scotarch dies, the autarch also must step aside until the nobles can gather and decide whether he is fit to continue his rule. During that time, he no longer has the gods’ protection. He may be deposed and executed by the nobles. It has happened more than a few times.”

Olin raised an eyebrow. “If the scotarch dies, the autarch can be deposed? Why on earth would that be?”

Vash shrugged. “It was a way to make sure none of the jealous clans could grab at power. There is no point being a scotarch if you only seek power, because when the autarch dies, you rule only until a new autarch is chosen. And there is no point murdering an autarch, especially if you are an impatient heir, because the scotarch will step in and you may not rise to the throne.”

“And each autarch chooses a new scotarch,” said Olin, looking over to Prusus, who was snoring now but still quivered gently even in his sleep, hands waggling like poppies in a strong breeze. “But if the autarch is always at least temporarily deposed when his scotarch dies, would it not make sense to choose the youngest, healthiest scotarch you could find?”

“Of course, Highness,” said Vash, nodding. “And in the past, autarchs have held great ceremonial games of wrestling and running and martial feats simply to find the healthiest, strongest candidates from among the noble families.”

“But this autarch did not, obviously.”

Vash shook his head. “The Golden One is unlike his predecessors in many ways, may his life be long.” He lowered his voice a little so the guards couldn’t hear him. “At the ceremony where Prusus received the Kite Crown, his great majesty Sulepis said to us, ‘Let any who doubt me watch whom the gods take first—this man Prusus, or my enemies.’ ” Vash sat up again. “So far many of the Golden One’s enemies have left the earth, but Prusus still lives and breathes.” He lifted himself off the bench, not without effort. He felt better now. Telling the story to the foreigner had clarified his earlier thoughts and worries. Surely it was the gods’ duty to decide whether Sulepis was to be stopped, not Pinimmon Vash’s. If heaven wanted the Golden One struck down or even just hindered, the gods had only to snap the slender reed that was the cripple Prusus’ life. For the gods that should be no more difficult than swatting a fly.

“One more question, please,” Olin said.

“Of course, Highness.”

“If somebody—may the gods forbid—simply pushed Scotarch Prusus over the side, would the autarch then lose power?”

Vash nodded. “Others have had that thought. And it is possible.”

“Possible? I thought it was the law of your country.”

“Yes, but it is also well known that Sulepis is a law unto himself. Also, there is another reason no one has dared to try it, I suspect.”

“And that is?”

“Whatever else happened, the murderer of a scotarch would be punished, and the punishment is a very cruel one—throwing a man’s guts into a lion’s cage while he is still alive and attached to them, if I remember correctly. Thus, no one ever murdered a scotarch even before Sulepis came to the throne.”

“Thank you,” said Olin. “You’ve given me much to think about, Minister Vash.”

“I am pleased to have served you, Highness,” he said, and bowed before turning back to his cabin. After an unexpectedly busy morning and the depressing company of a doomed man, Vash suddenly felt the need of a little food and sweet wine.

The man who never smiled stood in the doorway of the cabin. Pigeon, who in almost any other situation would have thrown himself in front of Qinnitan like a loyal dog, retreated behind her making little wordless noises of terror. Qinnitan did her best not to show that she felt much the same. “What do you want?” she demanded.

The unsmiling man glanced at her only briefly before letting his eyes roam around the small cabin, swelteringly hot despite the cool weather because its shutters had been nailed closed, foul with the smell of their unwashed bodies and the chamber pot, which was only emptied once a day.

“I am going into the town,” he said at last. “Do not think to play any tricks while I am gone.”

“What town?” That might at least give her some idea of where they were, how far they had sailed. She knew from the changes in the ship’s motion and noises that they had dropped anchor and had been terrified for the past several hours that they had caught up with the autarch’s ship. Perhaps something else was going on, though. She tried not to let hope get too strong a hold.

He didn’t answer her question, but only took a last look around. “If I am not back by sunset, you will be given your meal by one of the crew. I have told them they may not kill you, girl, but if you play up or try any tricks they should feel free to torture the boy.” He turned his pale, dead eyes on Pigeon. “That is why he is here. To make sure you do what you are told. Do you understand?”

Qinnitan swallowed. “Yes.” He turned back to her. His eyes were as empty as those of the red and silver fish in the Seclusion’s pools. “I would like to have a bath,” she said. “To bathe myself. Surely even you don’t plan to hand me over to the autarch stinking like this.”

He turned away and stepped to the door. “Perhaps.”

“Why won’t you tell me your name?”

“Because the dead need no names,” he said, letting the door fall shut behind him. She heard the latch fall heavily into place.

Somebody was talking to him in the passageway outside. It sounded like the captain—one of the autarch’s best, from what Qinnitan had gathered from the few crewmen she’d been able to overhear. She had also gathered the captain wasn’t happy taking orders from their kidnapper, whoever and whatever he was. She untangled herself from Pigeon and moved quietly to the door so she could put her ear against the crack.

“ . . . But it cannot be helped,” the captain was telling the nameless man. “Do not fear. We are a faster ship—we will catch the autarch’s fleet within a few days.”

“If it must be, it must be,” their captor said at last after a long silence. A little emotion had crept into his voice—impatience, maybe even anger. “I will be back by nightfall. See that we are ready to cast off then.”

Now it was the captain who could not keep the irritation from his voice. “A new rudder cannot always be fitted on the instant, even in a port town like Agamid. I can only do my best. The gods will always have their way.”

“Not true,” said their captor shortly. “If we fail to catch up to the autarch, even the gods will not be able to save you. That I promise you, Captain.”

Qinnitan walked on her tiptoes back to the bed and climbed in next to Pigeon. The sheets were damp and the boy’s skin was sweaty. Could he be catching some fever? She almost hoped so. It would be a good joke on the murderer who had stolen them if they both died of some workaday illness before he could deliver them to their fate.

“Sh,” she whispered to the shivering child. “We will be well, my chick. All will be well ...” But her mind was racing along like a cart rolling downhill. They were in Agamid the captain had said, and by the grace of the sacred bees of the Hive she recognized the name, a city on the southeastern coast of Eion, just north of Devonis. One of the girls in the Citadel’s washroom had been from Agamid. Qinnitan turned her memory upside down now, but couldn’t remember anything else the girl had said except that the port city had been claimed by both Devonis and Jael so long that the population spoke several languages. That did not help her. What she needed was a way to get off the ship while their enemy was away. If only she could think of a diversion . . .

“Do you trust me?” she asked the mute boy a few moments later. “Pigeon? Do you trust me?”

For a long moment he didn’t seem to hear her, and she worried he might be too ill to do anything, let alone risk his life trying to escape. Then he opened his eyes and nodded his head.

“Good,” she said. “Because I have an idea but it’s a bit frightening. Promise you won’t be too scared, whatever happens.”

His thin hand came out from under the single threadbare blanket and he squeezed hers.

“Then listen. We only have one chance to make this work.” And if it went wrong, one or both of them would die. She didn’t say that, but Pigeon already knew it. They had been living on stolen time ever since the nameless man had dragged them up the gangway of the autarch’s flagship.

Fever or fire,
she thought.
Either way, I’ll burn before I let the autarch touch me again.

—from “A Treatise on the Fairy Peoples of Eion and Xand”

 

 

“I
MUST CONFESS that I do not understand any of this, Chaven.” Ferras Vansen shook his head. “Gods, demigods, monsters, miracles . . . and now mirrors! I thought witchcraft was a thing of poisons and steaming cauldrons.”

The physician’s smile looked a little forced. “We are not discussing witchcraft here, Captain, but
science,
” he said. “The difference is one of learned men observing rules and sharing them with other learned men so that a body of knowledge is built up. That is why I need your help. Please tell me one more time.”

“I have told you all I can remember, sir. I fell into the darkness in Greatdeeps. I fell for a long time. Then, it was as though I slept and dreamed. I can remember only snatches of that dreaming and I have told them to you. Then I walked out of darkness—and yes, I remember that part very firmly. I fell into the shadows, but I walked out on my feet. I found myself in the center of Funderling Town—although I did not realize it at first, of course, since I had never been there.”

“But you were standing on the mirror, am I correct? The great mirror that reflects the statue of the god the Funderlings call the Lord of the Hot, Wet Stone—Kernios, as we Trigonates name him?”

Vansen was getting tired and couldn’t understand why Chaven kept asking so many questions about the way he had returned to Midlan’s Mount. Hadn’t he explained it all that first day?

“I was standing on the mirror, yes. I didn’t know the Funderlings had a different name for him, but it’s clearly an image of Kernios. Now that I think of it, that’s what that one-eyed monster Jikuyin planned in the first place—he wanted to open a door to the house of Kernios, whatever that might have meant. But I didn’t think about it long because I quickly found I had other things to consider.” He smiled a little. “A horde of Funderlings carrying all manner of sharp objects, for one thing. And if I remember correctly,
you
were the one leading them, Chaven, so there is nothing more I can tell you that you don’t know already.”

“It all makes a kind of sense,” the physician said slowly, as if he had not heard the last bit at all. In fact, he had seemed to stop listening after Vansen mentioned the house of Kernios. “Perhaps there was another mirror within the darkness in the Greatdeeps mines where you fell,” he mused. “Or something that acted the same way—we cannot even guess at all the knowledge the Qar still have, or that the gods once shared with them.” Chaven began pacing back and forth across the refectory, one of the few places in the temple of the Metamorphic Brotherhood other than the sacred chapel itself that was big enough for the two men to stand upright and move freely. “And at the other end, a sacred place in Funderling Town—dedicated to the god under a different name, but dedicated nonetheless. As though a single house had a door that opened in Eion and another that gave onto sunny Xand!”