The Road to Hell - eARC (56 page)

That creepy bird she insisted on bringing everywhere, and the wedding! The disgraceful demand for his services with no notice and no consideration for his status! The Caliraths were beyond vulgar. It was settled.

But his spies were doing good work. A lot of the information was actually coming from his new dear friend, Chava Busar, but Raynarg didn’t let that concern him. Uromathia was far away; the Caliraths—curse them—were right here. Ternathia had owned Tajvana before and unless he struck soon, the Caliraths might very well rule
his
capital again.

Chava’s tendency to tell him what to do and how to use the Order of Bergahl annoyed him, but Raynarg only needed his help to get rid of the Ternathian Emperor. After that, he could have his palace back and return everything to the status quo he’d enjoyed before the Caliraths’ arrival.

He did acknowledge that Chava was right on one point. It was important to choose his target carefully and then focus his resources to accomplish a proper terror-inducing, successful strike. Then the crowds would be remember who the true power in Tajvana was. And that, Raynarg knew from old experience, would make the second, third, and fifteenth strike so much more successful. But Chava didn’t appreciate the true nature of the threat…or the proper way to deal with it. No, he was positively
obsessed
with Zindel, Zindel, Zindel—as if there weren’t another Calirath in the entire multiverse!

The hints, oh so many hints! Chava made Raynarg’s head throb with his endlessly repeated hints, his focus on one hard and fast attack on Zindel. He never actually said it in so many words, of course…just as he never admitted his insistence stemmed from fear. He wanted to destroy their opposition in a single strike, before Zindel could see it coming, because he was afraid of what Zindel might do if he somehow survived that strike. A part of the Seneschal could recognize the Uromathian’s logic, but however reasonable Chava’s caution might sound in the palace, in his own temples, it tasted excessive.

Well, the emperor could drop all the hints he liked; the Seneschal had his own choices to make. He agreed that his true enemy was Emperor Zindel. But he wanted the man to suffer.

Zindel couldn’t die until he was broken. The Seneschal wouldn’t allow it. He’d seen the arrogance of Ternathia drain right out of the Winged Crown with the news of Prince Janaki’s death was confirmed and he was determined to see it again. And again and again and
again.
That, and only that, was the price he would exact for Zindel’s sins against Tajvana.

He would have preferred to start with little Anbessa and slit the throats of each Calirath, from youngest to oldest. Unfortunately, the two younger grand princesses rarely left the palace. That made reaching them…difficult, and Janaki was already dead. Raynarg regretted that. Satisfying as Zindel’s reaction to his son’s death had been, that reaction hadn’t come from the Seneschal’s own hand. That would have been
so
much better! And since he couldn’t have that, he longed to embrace the pattern, instead, and kill each heir, one by one. He allowed himself a delightful moment imagining the horror in Emperor Zindel’s eyes when his youngest daughter was finally made crown princess after losing all three of her older siblings.

But there were limits in all things, he reminded himself, and the Caliraths’ security was too tight for the sweet, extended revenge he craved. And he didn’t truly need it, when all was said. It was all to probable that he’d have to restrict himself to a single attack, yet one would be enough if it was executed properly. Even if it fell somewhat short of his heart’s true desire, it would be enough to send them packing. After all, the Caliraths had left Tajvana once before. If they left again, Chava Busar could see to the rest of the Calirath brats elsewhere. The Seneschal would wish him success, and perhaps he’d loan the Uromathian some muscle, just as Chava had done for him.

When it came down to it, the Seneschal considered himself a reasonable man. He only wanted back his palace, his city, and the adulation he deserved from the people of Tajvana.

* * *

“Show me.”

Acolyte Raka pointed at the muddy, pier-spined inlet. The Ylani Strait running through the center of Tajvana had many of these side waterways, and Drindel Usar knew what the Bergahldian wanted.

He’d been Calling for hours to get his creatures in range, yet these weren’t their normal waters. The temperature wasn’t completely horrible, but it should have been much warmed and there were nowhere near enough fish.

Another Uromathian padded along beside Raka’s group of Bergahldian toughs. Drindel didn’t recognize his countryman, but he knew from the man’s stance that this was another Talent trained up for Service, and he refocused on Calling, lest he make a bad impression on a likely senior.

He got a very small toothy shark pup to come to the surface. It wanted to be a man-eater one day, but it was only about three feet long so far. And from its starved length, it would never grow to four feet. The creature would die within the week unless someone fed it, and Drindel didn’t have access to enough raw meat or fish to make a difference. At least the cold would dull its senses somewhat.

Raka grunted and led the group mercifully back away from the water.

That night Drindel took a risk and contacted his assigned handler with a simple coded message. He wanted to say, “This place is colder than a cutcha’s privates, with less fish than a desert stream. I’m a Talent, not
Arcunas
. Send me home and let’s do this in the summer, when there’s enough warmth for algae to bloom, fish to school, and sharks to fill the whole Ylani with shore-to-shore fins!” But he only had code, so all he could send was: “Now. Water cold. Few shark. Small shark. Hungry. Give three month. Many shark. Big shark.”

The answer came back. “Understood. Stop contact. Will inform if directions change.”

Drindel was relieved. Sometimes his handlers were less than understanding about the physical limits of nature. It was good to have a reasonable one; his fellow Talent must have made a good report on him. They were finally taking the details of the Calling Talent seriously!

In a ledger in a small room deep inside Uromathia, Drindel Usar’s name had a small mark added next to it. At the bottom of the page, that mark had a notation: “Weak Talent. Expendable.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

January 24

Commander of One Thousand Tayrgal Carthos snarled behind his goggles as his command dragon spiraled earthward. The pilot was too busy looking down to notice Carthos’ expression and there were no other passengers to see it, since he’d deliberately flown ahead of the main body of his once independent command. His subordinates could oversee the rest of the movement, and he’d decided it would be better for him to meet Mayrkos Harshu with as few witnesses as possible. He doubted the upcoming interview would do anything to improve his relations with the AEF’s commander, whatever happened, and it might be wise to not have any of his subordinates or aides where they might inadvertently offer…unfortunate responses to questions. Better to get the lay of the land so he could brief them on how best to characterize their independent operations in the Nairsom-Kelsayr chain.

Their
abortive
independent operations, he thought bitterly. He remained far from certain why Harshu had diverted him to that long, roundabout advance, but however hard he’d tried, he’d been unable to think of a single
good
reason for it. There’d never been any real point from a strategic perspective, even if he’d managed to secure every universe from Nairsom to Kelsayr, given the water gap in Traisum itself. Without ships, getting across the Treybus Ocean—especially in winter!—would have been flatly impossible, even assuming they
had
managed to take the entire chain and been able to maintain a supply line through it. That had been obvious to Carthos from the moment he’d received his orders.

But it had to have been equally evident to
Harshu
before the two thousand sent him off anyway, and he’d never provided the support a serious advance through four universes would have required. In fact, he’d proceeded to starve Carthos of even minimal supplies on the pretext that his own advance required everything the AATC could haul. If not that excuse, he would’ve found another, Carthos thought with a fresh surge of anger. He was sure of it, the only question in his mind was why Harshu had shoved him down a useless rathole and then jammed a cork into it behind him.

They’d never liked each other, but this went further than that. He’d pushed Carthos aside, cut him out of any hope for glory, and picked that Air Force prick Toralk to share the spotlight with him. And there’d been something else, something in Harshu’s manner that went beyond anything so simple as dislike. It got a lot closer to scorn, possibly even contempt, and Carthos had found himself wondering if Harshu had somehow discovered the financial transactions between himself and the Mythalan banking interests. The ones Nith mul Gurthak had helped arrange.

It wasn’t as if Tayrgal Carthos were the only Army officer to have skated around the edges of legally allowable loan agreements, but he’d dipped far deeper into those prohibited waters than the majority of his fellows. Worse, the fact that he had gave mul Gurthak a degree of leverage that was…unfortunate. Carthos would have shed no tears over any unpleasantness which befell these Sharonian bastards under any circumstances, but mul Gurthak had made it clear he wanted the gloves to come completely off from the very beginning. Carthos knew the same suggestions had been made to Harshu himself, but mul Gurthak had been more subtle—or perhaps cautious—in the way he’d approached his fellow two thousand. In many ways, Carthos had enjoyed watching the Mythalan manipulate Harshu, maneuver him into deciding on his own to give Alivar Neshok his head. However little Carthos might like dancing to mul Gurthak’s tune himself, seeing a man he detested—and who he knew detested him in return—abandon his high and mighty principles and unknowingly put his entire career into the hands of someone like mul Gurthak had been gratifying.

The fact that his own career was already in mul Gurthak’s hands had been a less pleasing thought, and the Mythalan had been less delicate in his approach to Carthos. His “suggestions” had amounted to scarcely veiled orders delivered outside official channels, and while Carthos would have been inclined in the same direction himself, there’d been no question about how far mul Gurthak wanted him to go. Nor had there been any question about what mul Gurthak intended to happen to Harshu in the end. Carthos didn’t know
why
the Mythalan had decided to destroy Mayrkos Harshu, but he’d recognized the noose tightening around the other officer.

Harshu had appeared oblivious to the threat, but over the last month or so, Carthos had begun to wonder if he truly had been. If he hadn’t, if he’d seen this coming all along, and if he’d realized Carthos was effectively mul Gurthak’s creature…

The dragon spiraled lower, the flat, brown terrain below taking on texture, and the sheer, knife-sharp cliffs of the portal located near where the Shendisfalian city of Tayrmek ought to be rose before them. Carthos tightened his seat belt for the landing and worked on getting his expression under control. Whatever Harshu’s reason for diverting him from the main advance, the arrogant bastard had changed his mind after his own operations turned into an unmitigated cluster fuck. His losses in the thoroughly bitched up assault on Fort Salby had compelled him to recall Carthos, but the tone of his orders had scarcely been anything one might call cordial. No, whatever else happened, Tayrgal Carthos hadn’t been summoned to Karys to give him an opportunity to shine. Somehow—he wasn’t sure how, but he was certain Harshu would find a way—he’d be shoved aside again, denied the chance to acquire any credit.

Yet there might be a bright spot after all, he told himself, leaning back as the dragon’s powerful legs reached for the ground. Given how completely Harshu had fucked up, his own relief was inevitable, probably sooner rather than later. And that arse-kisser Toralk would be tarred with the same brush. He’d have to go, too, and he was junior to Carthos, anyway. Which meant all Carthos had to do was bide his time, watch his back, keep his own skirts clean, and the command would almost certainly devolve upon him in the end. For that matter, as much as he resented—and feared—mul Gurthak’s power over him, that very relationship might act in his favor. Carthos still hadn’t figured out what mul Gurthak’s real motives might be, but he rather suspected the Mythalan would prefer to have someone he could…strongly and directly influence in Harshu’s place.

I can wait, arsehole
, he thought, glaring in the direction of the encampment where Harshu awaited him.
I’ve waited this long, and I can wait a little longer. Because in the end, mul Gurthak’s going to put the blocks to you
and I’ll be standing on the edge of the pit while you slide straight down to the dragon
.

* * *

Commander of Five Thousand Pardinar Rukkar wasn’t exactly looking forward to this meeting.

His old friend Thankhar Olderhan had been stalking Portalis, white-lipped and vibrating with fury for days, but Rukkar had to acknowledge his longtime comrade had kept up with every one of his duties despite his inchoate rage. The work of governing an entire planet didn’t stop just because the Union was at war. Or because his heir was on trial. None of which had made Olderhan’s task one bit easier, of course.

As he followed the liveried footman in Garth Showma’s colors down the hallway, the five thousand made a mental note to treat the duke gently.

The footman reached the door to the duke’s private study and rapped once, sharply, on the frame. Then he opened the door.

“Your Grace, Five Thousand Rukkar,” he announced.

“Show him in, by all means, Larsu!” Olderhan’s deep voice replied

The duke rose to greet his guest, reaching out to clasp forearms as Rukkar entered the study, and despite his own mood, the five thousand smiled in familiar amusement at the contrast between them. Thankhar Olderhan looked every inch the Andaran duke he was, and Rukkar…didn’t. A small ruddy-featured man, the five thousand looked as if his first ancestor had been decanted by Mythlan magisters expressly as the first rider of the first dragon—which was fitting. Rukkars had been flying Andaran dragons almost as long as Olderhans had been commanding Andaran armies.

And that was why Sir Pardinar Rukkar had been chosen to run the investigation into the shit storm with the yellow. He’d sent updates over the last several days, but he’d come to deliver a summary of the final report in person.

Now he lowered himself heavily into a well-worn leather chair at the duke’s gesture and drew a deep breath as he prepared to do that delivering.

“Thankhar, it’s a mess,” he said frankly, skipping any honey coating preamble. “I know it’s to be expected, given what it takes for this kind of cluster-fuck to happen, but—” He grimaced. “There’re going to be people who’ll never believe my report, and I don’t know as I’ll blame them. For about the first twenty-four hours, I thought it was a clear-cut case. Stupidity all ’round—but simple. And I still think it is, really. But then things got a lot less clear-cut.”

Olderhan leaned back in his own chair, listening but certain he wasn’t going to like what came next.

“A hundred with Mythal Air Expeditionaries took full credit for sending one of my boys still in flight training out to scare off the crowd in front of your offices. Someone’d told them you’d asked for assistance with a riot. The boy needed saddle time, so this Hundred mul Belftus gave him the mission.

“So far so good, I thought at that point. But when my investigator asked mul
Belftus where the hummer was who’d brought that request message from you, the Hundred died.”

“He
what
?” Olderhan jerked upright in his own chair, and Rukkar winced. There was no easy way to explain the oddities of the report.

“His heart, the Healers said.” He threw up his hands. “And it gets worse. My boy flying that yellow—I know he was a fool to take the mission, but before that he was shaping into an excellent flier. He was a third-generation Andaran pilot, and he’d been flying retired transports at home since his arms were long enough to reach the controls. I had to write his parents a letter. He never woke up.”

“From a
crowd control
spell?” Olderhan wasn’t taking this nearly as calmly as Rukkar could have wished.

“Two blasts from peacekeeper staffs at focused max power.” He corrected. “Unusual, but not unheard of for that to be fatal.”

“Even at that range with him at least partially shielded by a dragon’s body?” Thankhar shook his head disbelievingly.

“I know,” Rukkar said. “If I hadn’t been running this investigation, I’d be a skeptic myself. But for any other explanation, I’d have to believe someone walked into the hospital and shot the boy with a daggerstone at exactly the same angle as he’d been hit by your retainers. Angles,” he corrected himself. “It’d need to be two shots to the same spots. It’s ridiculous.”

Thankhar Olderhan looked at him, his expression absolutely blank, and Rukkar raised an admonishing index finger.

“Don’t be thinking that, Thankhar. People’re stupid far more often than they’re wicked. Mythlans do things like gassing their field hands if they try to riot. We’d never do it, but to someone like mul Belftus, it wouldn’t have seemed so outrageous under the circumstances.”

“Slaves, Rukkar.” Olderhan spoke through gritted teeth. “They gas their
garthan
slaves and do it for revolts, not riots.”

“You know what I mean.” Rukkar regretted mentioning the Mythlan practices.

“And I never sent a hummer,” Thankhar said. “None of my Portalis staff sent a hummer. None of the Garth Showma Househummers left their coops within four hours of that dragon’s arrival.”

“Maybe someone on your staff forgot to log it, or—”

“No, I’m telling you a message was never sent!”

“Old friend, I understand,” Rukkar said, “but there’s no proof of that. You weren’t at home yourself until afterwards, so you can’t swear to it of your own knowledge. And no one’s staff would have the clearest recollection of what happened after that kind of surprise.”

“You don’t believe me.” The look in Olderhan’s eyes was not friendly.

“That’s not what I said.” Rukkar tried to calm him. “I only said there’s no proof, and I have a sworn statement from Hundred mul Belftus that
someone
sent him a hummer. And there’s a note in his office log that he
did
receive one. You say you didn’t send it, and I know you too well to think you’d say that if it wasn’t true. But think about it. Mul Belftus’ senior commo clerk—an Andaran, not a Mythalan—noted a message from someone at exactly the time mul Belftus said he’d received one, and why would anyone
fake
a message like that?”

Sir Thankhar Olderhan looked very old. “If that horror had happened, I’d look like someone who’d kill my officers’ wives and sisters on a whim. I’d be a pariah, a man no one could trust, much less believe.”

Rukkar shook his head. “It didn’t happen.”

“Only because the chief sword who manages my duty roster decided he needed to stand a ceremonial door watch himself that morning. I usually have two
lances
in that position, Rukkar! Lances!”

Rukkar raised his hands again. “Your staff did very well. It was brilliant. Almost anyone else would’ve stepped inside and sealed the doors instead of shooting at the yellow’s pilot.”

“The same staff you believe uniformly lied to your investigators about not sending the message supposedly asking for that mission.” The iciness in Olderhan’s tone began to frustrate Rukkar.

“I’m not the enemy here, Thankhar!” He shook his head. “I admit the coincidence of mul Belthus and the pilot both dying like that looks odd. Maybe even suspicious. But I did my investigation, and I had the medical examiner run detailed forensic exams on both bodies. There’s absolutely no evidence the Hundred died of anything but natural causes, and the pilot’s death was clearly the result of the crowd control spells your people hit him with—entirely justifiably, under the circumstances! It was a mess, and I’ll say so. But there’s no evidence of any conspiracy. Some of the MAE pilots thought a new breed of yellow had been flown in—one with a very mild breath weapon the
shakira
claim to have used on, yes,
garthan
slaves with no long-term injuries—and that that wingling was one of those. The pilot trainees who weren’t picked for the flight thought it was, too.”