“Awe?”
“I remember my ears ringing. I shook, I know that … My uncle told me I should be afraid, that the Tusk was
connected
to far bigger things.” The General smiled, fixing Conphas with his clear brown eyes. “I asked him if he meant a mastodon and he swatted me—right there!—in the presence of the Holiest of Holies …”
Conphas affected amusement. “Hmm, the Holiest of Holies …” He took a long sip of his wine, savoured the warm, almost buzzing taste. Many years had passed since he’d last enjoyed Skauras’s private stock. He could still scarcely believe the old jackal had been bested, and by
Coithus Saubon
… He’d meant what he’d said earlier: the Gods
did
favour the soft-of-head. Men like Conphas, on the other hand, they tested. Men like themselves …
“Tell me, Martemus, if you had to die defending one or the other, the Concubine or the Tusk, which would it be?”
“The Concubine,” the General replied without a whisper of hesitation.
“And why’s that?”
Again the General shrugged. “Habit.”
Conphas fairly howled. Now
that
was funny. Habit. What more assurance could a man desire?
Dear man! Precious man!
He paused, collected himself for a moment, then said, “This man, Prince Kellhus of Atrithau … What do you make of him?”
Martemus scowled, then leaned forward in his chair. Conphas had once made a game of this, leaning forward and back, and watching the way Martemus’s pose answered his, as though some critical distance between their faces must always be observed. In some ways, Martemus was such a strange man.
“Intelligent,” the General said after a moment, “well spoken, and utterly impoverished. Why do you ask?”
Still hesitant, Conphas appraised his subordinate for a moment. Martemus was unarmed, as was custom when conferring alone with members of the Imperial Family. He wore only a plain red smock.
He cares nothing about impressing me
… This, Conphas reminded himself, was what made his opinion so invaluable.
“I think it’s time I told you a little secret, Martemus … Do you remember Skeaös?”
“The Emperor’s Prime Counsel. What of him?”
“He was a spy, a
Cishaurim
spy … My uncle, ever keen to confirm his fears, noted that Prince Kellhus seemed peculiarly interested in Skeaös during that final gathering of the Great Names on the Andiamine Heights. Our Emperor, as you know, is not one to idly brood over his suspicions.”
Martemus blanched with shock. For a moment, it looked his nose might fall off his face. Conphas could almost read his thoughts:
Skeaös a Cishaurim spy? This is a
little
secret?
“So Skeaös admitted working for the Cishaurim?”
The Exalt-General shook his head. “He didn’t need to … He was … He was some kind of abomination—a
faceless
abomination!—and of a species the Imperial Saik couldn’t detect … Which means of course he
must
have been Cishaurim.”
“Faceless?”
Conphas blinked, and for the thousandth time saw Skeaös’s oh-so-familiar face … unclutch. “Don’t ask me to explain. I cannot.”
Fucking words.
“So you think this Prince Kellhus is a Cishaurim spy as well? A contact of some kind?
“He’s
something,
Martemus. Just what remains to be seen.”
The General’s astonished expression suddenly hardened into something shrewd. “Like the Emperor, you’re not one to harbour idle suspicions, Lord Exalt-General.”
“True, Martemus. But unlike my uncle, I know the wisdom of staying my hand, of letting my enemies think I’m deceived. To observe, and to observe closely, is not to remain idle.”
“But this is my point,” Martemus said. “Surely you’ve purchased informants. Surely you’ve had the man watched … What have you learned so far?”
Surely. “Not much. He camps with the Scylvendi, seems to share a woman with him—quite a beauty, I’m told. He spends his days with a Schoolman named Drusas Achamian—the
same
Mandate fool my uncle contracted to corroborate the Imperial Saik regarding Skeaös, though whether this is anything more than a coincidence, I don’t know. Supposedly they talk history and philosophy. He belongs, like the Scylvendi, to Proyas’s inner circle, and he wields, as fairly the entire Holy War witnessed tonight, some kind of strange power over Saubon. Otherwise, the caste-menials seem to think he’s a poor man’s prophet—a seer or something.”
“Not much?” Martemus exclaimed. “From your description, he sounds like a man of power to me—
frightful
power, if he belongs to the Cishaurim.”
Conphas smiled. “Growing power …” He leaned forward, and sure enough, Martemus leaned back. “Would you like to know what I think?”
“Of course.”
“I think he’s been sent by the Cishaurim to infiltrate and destroy the Holy War. Saubon’s idiotic march and that nonsense about ‘punishing the Shrial Knights’ was simply his first attempt. Mark me, there
will
be another. He bewitches men, somehow, plays the prophet …”
Martemus narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “But I’ve heard quite the opposite. They say he denies those who make more of him than he is.”
Conphas laughed. “Is there any better way to posture as a prophet? People don’t like the smell of presumption, Martemus. Even the pig castes have noses as keen as wolves when it comes to those who claim to be more.
Me,
on the other hand, I quite like the savoury stink of gall. I find it honest.”
Martemus’s face darkened. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Always to the quick, eh, General? Small wonder I find you so refreshing.”
“Small wonder,” the man repeated.
Such a dry wit, Martemus. Conphas reached for the decanter and refilled his bowl with more of the Sapatishah’s wine. “I tell you this, Martemus, because I would have you play general in a different sort of war. Quite against all reason, you’ve become a man of power. If this Prince Kellhus collects followers to a purpose, if he
courts
the mighty, then you should prove well nigh irresistible.”
A pained expression crept into Martemus’s face. “You want me to play disciple?”
“Yes,” Conphas replied. “I do not like the smell of this man.”
“Then why not just have him killed?”
But of course
… How could he be so penetrating and so dense by turns?
The Exalt-General inclined his bowl and watched the blood-dark wine roll in the bottom. For an instant, its bouquet transported him back years, to his days as a hostage in Skauras’s opulent court. He glanced once again to the Over-Standard behind its curtain of incense. His sweet Concubine.
“It’s strange,” Conphas said, “but I feel young.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MENGEDDA
All men are greater than dead men.
—AINONI PROVERB
Every monumental work of the State is measured by cubits. Every cubit is measured by the length of the Aspect-Emperor’s arm. And the Aspect-Emperor’s arm, they say, stands beyond measure. But I say the Aspect-Emperor’s arm is measured by the length of a cubit, and that all cubits are measured by the works of the State. Not even the All stands beyond measure, for it is more than what lies within it, and “more” is a kind of measure. Even the God has His cubits.
—IMPARRHAS,
PSÛKALOGUES
Early Summer, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, the Plains of Mengedda
“They celebrate my uncle’s honour,” Earl Athjeäri said as he led Kellhus through carousing mobs of drunk Northmen. The Galeoth preferred leather wedge tents with heavy wooden frames adorned by tusks and crude animal totems. Without the need to stake guy ropes, they were able to arrange them board to board, canvas to canvas, in large circular enclosures about a central fire. Athjeäri led him through enclosure after enclosure, prompted by Kellhus’s questions to explain the various peculiarities of his people’s appearance, customs, and traditions. Though annoyed at first, the young Earl was soon beaming with wonder and pride, struck not only by the distinctiveness and nobility of his people, but by a new self-understanding as well. Like so many men, he’d never truly considered who or what he was.
Coithus Athjeäri, Kellhus knew, would never forget this walk.
At once so easy and so difficult …
Kellhus had taken the shortest path. He’d acquired crucial background knowledge concerning Saubon’s heritage, and he’d gained the confidence and admiration of his precocious nephew, who hence would look on Prince Kellhus of Atrithau as a friend and more, as someone who made him wiser—
better
—than he was with other men.
Eventually, they shouldered their way into an enclosure far larger, and far drunker, than any of the others. On the far side Kellhus glimpsed the Red Lion banner of House Coithus rising above the shadowy congregation. Athjeäri began pushing his way toward it, cursing and berating his countrymen. But he paused when they neared the enclosure’s centre, where a bonfire whisked sparks and smoke into the night sky.
“
This
will interest you,” he said, grinning.
A large clearing had been opened before the fire, and two Galeoth, breathless and stripped to the waist, stood facing each other in its heart, holding what appeared to be two staffs between them. Each, Kellhus realized, had their wrists bound by leather straps to the end of each pole, so they were held from each other. Gripping the polished wood, they leaned each against the other, their white chests and sunburned arms taut with veins and straining muscle. The onlookers hooped and roared.
Suddenly the nearer man pulled rather than pushed with his left, and his opponent stumbled forward. Then the two men fairly danced around the fire, heaving, yanking, shoving, thrusting, whatever it took to bring their opponent to the packed earth.
The larger man staggered, and for a moment looked as though he might lurch into the fire. The crowd gasped, then cheered as he caught himself just short of the fiery column. With a roar he jerked the smaller man into his long shadow, then drove him back, only to suddenly falter, shaking his head fiercely. A small flame puffed from his cropped mane, at the sight of which literally dozens doubled over with laughter. The man cried out, cursed. For an instant, it appeared he might panic, but someone sent what looked like beer or mead slapping across his scalp. More booming laughter, punctuated by cries of foul.
Athjeäri chortled, turned to Kellhus. “These two
really
hate each other,” he called over the ruckus. “They want blood or burns more than silver!”
“What is this?”
“We call it
gandoki,
or ‘shadows.’ To beat your
gandoch,
your shadow, you must knock him to the ground.” His laugh was relaxed and infectious, the laugh of a man utterly certain of his place among others. “The picks,” he added, using the common derogatory term for non-Norsirai, “they think we Galeoth are a race without subtlety—and so women say of men! But gandoki proves that it’s not entirely true.”
Then suddenly, as though stepping through a door from nowhere, Sarcellus stood between them, wearing the same white and gold vestments as at the amphitheatre. “Prince,” he said, bowing his head to Kellhus.
Athjeäri fairly whirled. “What are you doing here?”
The Shrial Knight laughed, fixing the Earl with large camel-lashed eyes. “The same as you, I suppose. I wished to confer with Prince Kellhus.”
“You followed us,” Athjeäri said.
“Please …”
the thing replied, pretending to be offended. “I knew I’d find him here, enjoying the largesse”—he looked sceptically at the surrounding crowds—“of the Battle-Celebrant.”
Athjeäri glanced at Kellhus, his look, his heart rate, even the draw of his breath striking a note of scarcely concealed aversion. He thought Sarcellus vain and effete, Kellhus realized, a particularly repellent member of a species he’d long ago learned to despise. But then, that was likely what the original Cutias Sarcellus had been: a pompous caste-noble. Sarcellus, the
real
Sarcellus, was dead. What stood here in his stead was a beast of some kind, an exquisitely trained animal. It had wrenched Sarcellus from his place and had assumed all he once was. It had robbed him even of his death.
No murder could be more total.
“Well then,” the young Earl said, looking off as though distracted.
“Allow me a few words with the Knight-Commander,” Kellhus said.
Though he scowled as he spoke, Athjeäri agreed to meet him at Saubon’s tent in a short time. “Run along,” Sarcellus said, as the Earl impatiently shoved his way among his shouting kinsmen.