Straits of Hell (9 page)

Adar looked stung, but Matt thankfully recognized from the 'Cat's hesitant blinking that Adar also knew he was right. He was glad. He'd meant every word he said and wanted Adar and the wounded safe. But on a purely selfish note, he also knew Sandra would go—easier at least—if Adar told her to.

“Very well,” Adar said stiffly.

Matt took another deep breath and slowly let it out. “Thanks, Mr. Chairman.”

//////
Sofesshk
Grik East Africa

F
irst General Esshk and the Chooser rode alone in a large, garishly appointed coach drawn by a hundred harnessed warriors. They were traveling up an ancient baked-brick thoroughfare bordering the north bank of the river called “Zambezi” in the scientific tongue that stretched uninterrupted from one end of the prehistoric city of Sofesshk to the other. Marching behind them was an honor guard of a thousand warriors, Esshk's very finest, but many more thousands lined the road on either side, emitting a rumbling hiss that struck Esshk with an odd sense of irony. The sound was one of contentment, similar to the sound Uul warriors made when fed to satiation, but in these circumstances Esshk recognized it as the clamor of satisfied acclaim. He considered that ironic since he was triumphantly entering the cherished, timeless district of “old” Sofesshk, where the elite of the Empire abided beneath the daily shadow of the
Palace of Vanished Gods. This, after losing Madagascar, the Celestial City, and the great palace there, and even the Giver of Life herself to an invading host of prey! Fortunately for him, it was not
his
army that was defeated, and only chance had placed him there at the time. He'd done his best to salvage the situation, of course, and that was well-known here. But the fact remained that, however peripherally, he'd been beaten.

Several things had saved him. First, though he'd lost the Mother, he'd carried away her most promising candidates for succession. Second, he was First General, and a carrier of the Celestial Blood himself. That had inspired the Chooser to proclaim him “Regent Champion” until a new Giver of Life could be elevated from among the candidates he preserved. Third, he personally commanded the greatest, best equipped host in all the Empire; an army raised by and instilled with the principles of absolute loyalty and obedience to the authority of the Celestial Mother—embodied by the person of First General Esshk. Finally, that army, just now reaching its most lethal maturity at last, had
not
been defeated. All things considered, Esshk had escaped the disaster on Madagascar fairly well.

He contemplated his sole companion. Not a warrior, the Chooser was obese for a Grik, with a calculating, manipulative mind—exactly what Esshk was in need of—but he was prone to fits of panic that undermined his bold schemes. His dress was as garish as the carriage, with a gray cloak covered with tiny bones fastened about his neck, and the tiny teeth of hatchlings clinking in the brush of his crest. He'd taken to wearing a sword, unheard of for a Chooser, but he excused it with the explanation that all the Grik had to come to terms with total war having reached their shores. Esshk suspected he wore the somewhat delicate thing for far more personal reasons, but made no comment. He sighed. The little sword was finely made, and reminded him of Regent Tsalka. It might have even once been his. Tsalka had been a . . . troublesome creature at times, but Esshk certainly approved of his sense of taste. His palaces at Colombo and Madras had been things of beauty, decorated with fine, not-so-garish masonry, and flowing ivies reminiscent of Sofesshk itself, and not the more . . . utilitarian architecture that prevailed elsewhere in the Empire. He glanced to the south, across the mighty river. The “new” districts of the city were dedicated to commerce and industry. Warships and cargo hulls huddled along the shoreline,
and crude buildings and countless squalid dwellings sprawled for miles beyond view.
Little different from the Celestial City on Madagascar,
he thought, wondering how long ago the Grik, even the Hij, had lost all sense of taste except when it came to personal adornment. In contrast, “old” Sofesshk was downright colorful, even if Imperial red predominated, and the dwellings reminded him of the more . . . imaginative structures he'd seen in the Lemurian city of Aryaal. It was strange. Had there once been a time among his race when they focused more on creating than expanding—and merely existing?

He stuck his snout outside the window to view their destination. Even that was different. Though the shape and stone construction of the unimaginably older Palace of Vanished Gods had clearly inspired the far more massive structure on Madagascar, it possessed a simple elegance despite its time-worn features. Perhaps that . . . rounding, that air of the ancient, was what the builders of the Celestial Palace had hoped to replicate? Esshk considered it likely, and that evoked a sudden suspicion that the austere approach embodied by the newer palace had adversely affected Grik architecture ever since. He snorted and shook his head, wondering why such things now cluttered his mind when he had far more important thoughts to consider.

He glanced at the palace again before leaning back into the carriage. The legends that had served the Grik as true history until just the last few hundred years were adamant that the Palace of Vanished Gods had been the very first capital of the united Grik race before the Celestial Mother crossed the Go Away Strait to establish a new palace. There, separate from the various tribal territories or “regencies,” she could rule, impartial to all. But Sofesshk had remained the most sacred of cities and the Palace of Vanished Gods the holiest of shrines. If the Chooser and First General Esshk got their way, it wouldn't be merely a shrine much longer, but would shortly revert to its original purpose.

The Chooser growled at something he saw beyond the warriors lining the road. “Not all are here to welcome us,” he warned. “The warriors of Regent Consort Ragak do not sound content, and they are thickest here, closer to the palace!” He turned to look at Esshk, his red eyes narrowed in calculation. “I dislike all this delay. A quicker counterattack in the immediate aftermath of our arrival, while the Regents were united in their outrage and bereavement . . . They were
eager
to cooperate
however they could to avenge our Giver of Life and the defeat at the Celestial Palace!” He slumped back, shifting his tail aside. “And each day that passes, the prey—the
enemy
—grows stronger and more difficult to drive back into the sea!” the Chooser hissed.

“Regent Consort Ragak undermines us,” Esshk observed mildly.

“You should slay him!” the Chooser snarled, but Esshk hissed amusement.

“If you are so confident of our position, why not simply choose him for the cook pots, as is your right? No?” Esshk hissed again. “I dislike the delay as well, but you yourself said that this elevation must proceed! You proclaimed me Regent Champion of all Ghaarrichk'k, and most other regents agreed to support us since I carry the Celestial Blood. But Ragak is Regent Consort of Sofesshk itself. If I slew him in his own regency simply because he called for the elevation of a new Mother before he and his armies join the swarm to rescue the Celestial Palace from the beasts that infest it, I could lose the support of other regents who might fear a similar fate.” Esshk jerked his head to the side in negation. “That must not be. As you—and Ragak—have said, we must have a Mother!”

“Of course, and we will!” the Chooser insisted. “But like this? So . . . publicly?”

“It is the traditional way.”

“There
is
no traditional way to fully elevate a new Celestial Mother without her own mother present! And as we discussed, I had . . . hoped to control the process to our benefit—and the benefit of our race!” the Chooser quickly added. “If the process is thrown out for all to see, how can we ensure that we—that
you
will remain Champion Regent, or even First General? Particularly without the final rite, whoever rises cannot truly rule until she achieves the age of wisdom!”

“In which case she must confirm her Champion,” Esshk pointed out patiently. “You worry too much, Chooser,” Esshk scolded. “If you will recall, we saved all of those who might rise. All. They remain silly little things, but they will remember. Do not fear that we won't be chosen by whichever one is elevated.” Esshk paused. “And even though we have not yet struck back at the foe in a meaningful way, I have been making plans and gathering great strength. Forget Regent Consort Ragak. I will deal with him. And after today, we shall be free to press our attack with numbers and power never seen before!”

“Oh, very well, but forgive me if I chafe and continue to contemplate the consequences of disaster. For example, even if all proceeds as you say, will not Ragak and others attempt to exert unwholesome influences over our new Giver of Life while you are away at battle? I shudder to think what mischief he may cause in your absence.”

“Rest easy, Chooser. Do not chafe. Do not shudder. In addition to my greater plans, I have commenced more modest preparations. I have said I will deal with Ragak, and I shall. You must concentrate on the duties appropriate to your position this day—but rest assured, life will soon grow most unpleasant for Regent Consort Ragak, and our proper enemies across the strait in the Celestial City as well.” He was quiet a long moment while the procession neared the greenish lawn surrounding the Palace of Vanished Gods, and took in the substantial gathering. All the ruling Hij were present, arranged on the flanks of the palace or on raised benches erected around a central space at the western foot of the structure. Ragak was there, brightly adorned in the robes of his regency, and surrounded by his staff and other creatures who served him. Despite the exalted rank proclaimed for him, Esshk wore only his finest armor and a scarlet cape. He realized Ragak was watching him step down from the coach and ascend to the elevated pavilion that would've been reserved for a visiting Celestial Mother with select members of his staff. One of those was General Ign, commander of the “new” warriors there that day. The Chooser left to prepare for his own role in the drama to come, and Esshk made himself comfortable before glancing back at Ragak. To his surprise, his rival was still staring, eyes and jaws finally revealing the true depth of animosity he harbored.
Of course Ragak is bitter,
Esshk realized.
This is his regency, his city. If anyone must be Regent Champion here, in this very palace, it is only natural he would desire it himself.
Esshk bowed to Ragak, and the regent quickly looked away.

“He is impertinent, Lord!” General Ign hissed. “He
stares
at you, the greatest general of our race, as if you were his prey!” He huffed. “Allow me to slay him, Lord!”

Esshk repressed a snort of exasperation. While no doubt entertaining, Ign would start a full-scale battle between his and Ragak's warriors if he did that, regardless of the occasion.

“Do not trouble yourself, General,” Esshk murmured in the growing roar of the gathering crowd. “I have faced combat on the battlefield and
even survived the intrigues of court—and Hisashi Kurokawa! Mere stares are beneath my notice. But rest assured; I shall take
good
care of Regent Consort Ragak.”

The Gathering Horns sounded deeply, and the crowd shifted expectantly. The elevation of a new Celestial Mother was about to begin. Thousands had joined the mob encircling the space at the foot of the palace. There were warriors, certainly, both Esshk's “new” ones and what he considered Ragak's “ordinary” Uul—but many Hij had joined as well, the highly placed mixing and jostling with those of more humble pursuits. In this one instance, perhaps, a shade of egalitarianism had colored a disparate mass gathering of Grik. All were there to see who would rise to rule them, but some were just genuinely curious. And most of the Uul had never even seen a female before.

When the hubbub reached its peak and it grew increasingly difficult for the cordon of Hij warriors to hold back the mob, the Chooser finally strode into the clearing, accompanied by a chorus of Attention Horns. Almost instantly, the crowd grew silent, the “civilian” Hij taking the longest. The Chooser gestured impatiently at one of Esshk's own officers who'd accompanied him, and the commander of ten hundreds raised a trumpet to the Chooser's face. With only the slightest hesitation, and with somber, rasping tones, he began an ancient chant. Esshk's thoughts wandered. He'd heard the elevation rites many times and knew the words by heart—and ultimately, the words themselves mattered very little since only the Hij understood them and the vast majority of Uul would never hear them again. A total of nine, the oldest of the thirty-two females he'd saved, would participate in the rite, and all would be elevated before their final test. Esshk wanted this settled quickly and hoped that one of the first group would rise above the others. The chances were good, since they were the best prepared in most respects—but sometimes that could be problematic as well, and the more often they had to perform the rite, the more . . . tedious things could become. If the first group failed, they had only enough females to perform the rite twice more if they meant to preserve the bloodline—which they must—and it would be
six years
before the offspring of the remaining females were old enough to try again. Ironically, that had been the ideal scenario Esshk and the Chooser originally contemplated, doubting anyone would oppose a First General's appointment as Regent Champion
by the Chooser himself. But Regent Consort Ragak's self-interested obstructionism had made the installation of a new Celestial Mother utterly imperative, to have any hope of a rapid, meaningful counteroffensive against the invaders.

At a command from the Chooser, a gap formed in the encircling crowd, and the nine candidates entered the ring. All were young and more slightly framed than the average male, but most had already begun to pack on the extra weight of fat that distinguished females of breeding age. One by one they entered the circle, entirely naked except for their painted claws, and took their places around the Chooser, standing demurely, eyes cast down. They all looked so vulnerable, so . . . alluring. Nothing like this could ever occur during the last quarter estrus! Even so, Esshk was gratified to see that all bore the slightly coppery plumage, to varying degrees, of their exalted Mother. It was a good sign, he thought, and fitting that she be replaced by one who mirrored her beauty.