For all that he had modestly chosen to remain regent for a year, even when the Scales of Jierna Tal had weighed in his favor and selected him as emperor, Talquist did not deny himself any of the luxuries of the position that would soon be his. He had been nibbling all day upon the bounty of the shipping trade from which he had arisen as the hierarch of the western guilds: sweetmeats from Golgarn, flaky pastries layered in honey and cardamom, roasted nuts and delicate wine from the Hintervold, where the frozen grapes were pressed through ice to make an incomparable nectar. He had worked in the trade of the shipping lanes of the continent all of his life, and as a result he had developed a taste for and access to the finer things, even when he was a mere longshoreman. Once he became First Emperor of the Sun in a few months, he would have even better gastronomical delicacies to look forward to. The kitchens of the palace of Jierna Tal were considered among the finest in the world.
The splendor of nightfall over the Sorbold desert was impossible to ignore, even for so focused a man as Talquist. The air, normally static and dry to the point of bringing blood from the nose, took on a sweeter, moister aspect for a moment, as if tempting the sun to return in the morning. The winds had quieted, leaving that air clear as well; the firmament of the heavens was darkening to a cerulean blue in the east, with tiny stars glimmering through the cloudless veil of night. In the west was a swirling dance of color, fiery hues that tapered away to a soft pink at the outer edges, wrapped around a blazing ball of red orange flame descending below the distant mountains.
Talquist sighed. There is such beauty in this land, he thought, the fierce pride of his nation welling in his heart. She is a harsh land, this dry, forbidding realm of endless sun, but her riches are undeniable.
The clattering of the hooves of the horses in his escort, fifty strong, roused him from his musings. Talquist reached for the platinum tinderbox, removed the flint and steel, and struck a spark to the wick of the lamp of scented oil on his table. A dim glow caught, then expanded, bringing warm light into the deepening darkness of the coach’s velvet interior.
Three more days until we reach Jierna Tal, Talquist thought, his eyes returning to the detailed ledger before him. The thought made him itch; he was eager to return to the grand palace with the parapets nestled deep in the mountains of central Sorbold after so much time on the western coast, attending to business there. An unfortunate accident at the time of his selection by the Scales had taken the life of Ihvarr, the hierarch of the eastern guilds, Talquist’s friend, cohort in trade, and only real competition. Talquist had quickly absorbed Ihvarr’s network of miners, carters, tradesmen, and store owners, which required extensive oversight, and he himself had always had the shipping concerns, which needed even more. But the heavy workload didn’t bother him, because Talquist was an ambitious man.
The sound of a horse approaching broadside of his coach drew his attention away from his books. Talquist looked out the window to see one of his scouts riding up, signaling for the coach to slow. He tapped the interior window at the base of the coachman’s seat.
“Roll to a stop,” he ordered, then leaned out the window.
“What is it?” he called.
The soldier, attired in the emperor’s own livery, reined his horse to a halt as well.
“M’lord, there is a caravan ahead approaching the mountain pass, four wagons.”
“Yes?”
“They appear to be traveling under cover of darkness to avoid detection. The wagons are full of what appear to be captives.”
Talquist leaned farther out the window, his brows drawing together in displeasure.
“Captives?”
“Yes, m’lord. They are bound and blindfolded; probably were brought ashore to the south along the Skeleton Coast.”
Talquist nodded angrily. Slave trade was increasing by leaps and bounds in Sorbold; the sale of human prisoners into the mines and fields had been on the rise since the death of the previous ruler, the Empress of the Dark Earth, whose demise had led to his ascension. Renegade slavers who attacked villages or caravans and impressed their captives into fieldwork or sold them were one of Talquist’s greatest irritations.
“Where do they appear to be going?” he asked.
The soldier removed his helmet and shook the sweat from it. “Based on their route, I would hazard they are headed for the olive groves of Baltar,” he said.
“Intercept them,” Talquist ordered. “Divert my procession; I want to see who is smuggling slaves in my realm and put a stop to it personally. I’ll batten down in here; tell the coachman to go full out.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Talquist lowered the shade and put out the light, seething with anger.
Evrit rubbed his tongue futilely inside his mouth, hoping to generate spit, but there was none to be had.
Five days with his eyes blindfolded and his hands bound before him had made him somewhat more aware of things around him: the cooling of the air with the coming of night, the stench of the waste in the wagon, the moans of pain and whimpers of fear among his fellow captives, especially those of his young sons, whose voices he could recognize even when no words were spoken. He tried to listen for any sign of his wife, who had been thrown, struggling, into another wagon, but the endless clatter of the horses and the clanking and groaning of the wagons made it impossible.
Selac, the younger of his two boys, had ceased making sounds some hours before. Every time the wagon noise lessened, Evrit had called to him, his ragged voice all but unrecognizable, but had received no reply. He prayed that the boy had merely fallen asleep or unconscious rather than trying to remain upright in the stench and the thirst, but could not rid his mind of the thumping sound that occurred every time the wagons slowed for the daily feeding and watering of the captives. He had counted five such sounds. The whipping sands of the desert wind stung against his skin, serving as a fine substitute for the tears of fear that could not come from his eyes for lack of water and the blindfold.
Over and over again he cursed himself for being enough of a fool to undertake the sea voyage to Golgarn. He was the titular leader of the expedition; he and his fellow passengers on the Freedom had timed their departure to take advantage of the last of the southerly summer trade winds, before autumn turned the current near the Skeleton Coast deadly. They had taken to the sea ultimately seeking tolerance of their gentle religious sect in Golgarn, which was a state that espoused no particular faith. They had survived the sinking of their vessel only to find themselves prisoners of the people who had helped them ashore—the people they had thought were rescuers.
Their captors had not been completely unkind to them; there had been no rape of the women from the sundered ship, as far has he could tell, no beatings or abuse. They had been bound and blindfolded after being given water and food, and allowed to relieve themselves, though the harshness of the summer in the desert, the roughness of their transport, and the general conditions could not help but add to their collective misery. The leader of the slave traders had even asserted that two seasons of olive picking, were it done dutifully and well, would buy their freedom. Evrit was not addled enough to believe the word of a slaver, but at least it had given the women and children hope. Ever since their vessel had lost course on its way to Golgarn and had struck the savage reef at the outskirts of the Skeleton Coast, Evrit had believed it was just a matter of time before death took his family. Their survival had thus far not proved to be a better lot than death would have been.
In the distance he heard a horn blast, once, long and sustained, then again, three times short. Evrit could feel the men in the wagon around him sit up or go rigid; they had heard it as well.
Around them their captors began to shout to one another, calling out in a tongue he did not understand. There was panic in their voices.
“What’s—happening?” the man next to him murmured.
The ground beneath the wagon began to rumble. Evrit recognized the sound.
“Horses,” he whispe
red. “Many of them.”
The wagons slowed, the creaking giving way to the sound of thundering hooves muted by the sandy roadway.
One of the captives began praying aloud; the others joined in quietly as the vibrations of the oncoming horses whipped up the grit of the desert against their skin.
Evrit tried to sort out the maelstrom of sounds that followed. It seemed to him that some of their captors had tried to run, abandoning the wagons and fleeing on horseback, but were quickly pursued by other horsemen greatly outnumbering them. The din around them made it clear that the wagons themselves had been surrounded, and from the shouting of commands, he could tell they had been taken into the custody of a military entity, though what it was he could not be certain.
Finally, after a long time of noise and confusion, he heard a carriage roll to a stop beside the wagons, and a door open amid the sounds of protocol. He listened intently, trying to catch the words, but they, too, were in a tongue he did not recognize.
At last a command was uttered, and someone leapt into the wagon, causing it to shudder violently. A moment later, he felt hands gently removing his blindfold.
At first he thought he might have lost his sight entirely; the world around his eyes, freed from their bandage, was dark, but after a moment they adjusted and he could see a soldier, dressed in dark red cloth studded with leather strips, releasing the eyes of the rest of the captives in the wagon.
Evrit looked around quickly, desperately, and caught sight of his eldest son, who sat across from him, staring wildly back at him. He nodded encouragingly, then looked behind him.
Standing in the midst of the four wagons was a swarthy man with heavy features, dressed in loose white robes with a heavy neckpiece inlaid in gold. The robes were embroidered with the symbol of a sword and the sun. He was giving orders to what appeared to be an entire cohort of mounted soldiers, similar in skin texture and features to their leader, some of whom rode between the wagons while others released the eyes of the captives or passed out water.
A wineskin was offered to him and he drank gratefully, his hands still bound, then looked around for Selac, finding him in a nearby wagon. Evrit bowed his head in relief, whispering a prayer of thanks for their rescue.
Finally the man in the robes waved the soldier he was conferring with away, then turned and addressed the captives in the common tongue of the maritime trade.
“I am Talquist, regent of Sorbold and emperor presumptive. I welcome you to my lands, and apologize for any mistreatment you may have suffered at the hands of my subjects. The ringleader has been executed, and the rest of these renegade slavers are now in the custody of my army.”
Evrit exhaled in relief and flashed a slight smile at both of his sons to reassure them.
“You will be continuing on with the my caravan now, so that my soldiers can protect you,” the regent continued. “In a moment, you should all be freed from your blindfolds if you are not already. If anyone is in need of water, tell the soldier attending to your wagon. Who among you is the leader?”
For a moment there was silence. Then Evrit found his voice.
“Our—our expedition had no real leader, m’lord,” he said, his voice cracking. “But I signed the bill of lading when we set sail on the Freedom.”
The regent turned in his direction and walked over to the wagon, smiling agreeably.
“The Freedom, did you say? A fine ship. I have sent cargo aboard her many times. Did she founder?”
“Yes, m’lord, I’m sorry to say, against a reef. We came ashore at the Skeleton Coast, but were taken prisoner by the men whom you have captured.”
“Well, on behalf of my nation, I apologize. They had no right to do that.” The regent gave another command to the soldiers, who in turn broke off into four groups of two and mounted the wagons, preparing to drive them on. Then he started back toward the carriage from which he had descended.
“Er—m’lord?” Evrit called nervously, compelled by the looks of shock on the faces of his fellow captives.
The regent stopped and turned around. “Yes?”
“Might—might we have our hands unbound?”
The regent considered for a moment, then walked back to the wagon and stood next to Evrit, regarding him thoughtfully.
“The woman in the green skirt—she is your wife, is she not?” he asked finally.
“Ye—yes,” stammered Evrit.
The regent nodded. “Would you like her brought to sit beside you?”
“Yes, yes, m’lord,” Evrit said gratefully.
The regent placed his hand on the wagon slat, and leaned closer in toward Evrit. “I fear I may have unintentionally misled you. You see, the slavers who took you captive had no right to do so, because all slave captures are specifically sanctioned and controlled by the Crown—in other words, me,” he said pleasantly. “And while these miscreants probably would have sold you to an olive farmer or the owner of an apple orchard, I have much better use for you men—in the salt mines of Nicosi. You look like a strong lot. You should survive awhile. The women we will put to work in the linen factories, the children will labor in the palace as chimney sweeps and cleaning the sewers while they are small enough to fit.”
The regent turned and headed back to his carriage, pausing long enough to call to the captain of his guard.
“Mikowacz, bring me that woman in the green skirt. I’ll start with her. By morning I want you to have found the youngest and prettiest among them. We have three days until we reach the mines.”
He cast a glance back at Evrit, whose face was white as the crescent moon that hung over the Sorbold desert.
“When I’m finished with the leader’s wife, you may allow her to sit beside her husband in the wagon until we reach the salt mines.”
He climbed into his carriage, leaving the door open.
6
RAVEN’S GUILD,
THIEVES’ MARKET, YARIM PAAR
Yabrith, petty thief, assassin, and thug that he was, had a gift for knowing when a man was about to crack. He had used this talent many times over the course of his criminal career, amassing an impressive reputation for prying information and secrets from the most unwilling of victims.
His sensitivity to situational precariousness was in a heightened state of alarm now, deep within the dark confines and crumbling walls of the Raven’s Guild hall in the Inner Market of Yarim Paar. The air was thick with the static of danger, of black rage only slightly held in check.
Yabrith had no desire to be the weight that tipped the scales. He set the heavy crystal glass down in front of the guild scion and stepped quickly to the side of the table, trying not to draw the man’s notice while hoping silently that the spirits he was providing would quell the nervousness that had taken hold of the scion, and all his fellows in the Guild over the last few weeks.
Dranth, the guild scion, extended a hand that shook only slightly and seized the glass, downing the amber liquid in one bolt. He clenched his teeth and inhaled over the burn, drawing the vapors into his sinuses, hoping they would soothe his mind, and realizing dully that they could never be strong enough.
For a full cycle of the moon he had been plagued, for the first time since childhood, with nightmares from which he woke drenched in sweat and the sour smell of fear. Dranth had taken to pacing the floor after these dreams, hoping to drive the images from his mind, but he could only succeed in making the pictures fade into the dark recesses for a short while, lingering in the shadows until sleep took him.
Whereupon they would emerge to clutch at him again.
He dropped the glass onto the thick board of the new table, wincing as it thudded. It was a sound similar to the one that haunted him, the dull thump of a box that had been placed on this table’s predecessor two fortnights before.
Dranth had opened the small, leather-bound crate, sealed and wrapped in parchment paper carefully, believing it to be yet another package sent home by the guildmistress, who was working surreptitiously in the mountai
ns of Ylorc, deep within the Bolg king’s lair. Upon removing the internal wrapping, however, he had discovered instead the guildmistress’s own head, her eyes open and festering with maggots that crawled through the sockets, her mouth frozen open in an expression of surprise.
He had lurched back and vomited all over the floor of the guildhall.
It was not horror at the ghastly fate that had befallen the guild’s erstwhile leader which caused Dranth’s stomach to rush into his mouth. Nor was it any loss he might have felt for the woman herself. In the twenty years he had known Esten, there was no one to whom he had been more devoted, more enslaved, more loyal, but now, beholding her disembodied head rotting before him on the table, it was not grief or revulsion that racked Dranth.
It was abject fear.
Because, until he beheld the evidence of it himself, he would never have believed it possible that anyone could visit death of any kind, let alone such a gruesome and violent one, upon the guildmistress.
From the moment he had first seen her in a dark alleyway, ripping her blade mercilessly into the belly of a startled soldier at the tender age of eight summers, eviscerating the man as coolly as she might play jackstraws, Dranth had been painfully aware of Esten’s extraordinary powers of murder and self-preservation, as well as her utter lack of a soul. She had held the guild, the city, and much of the province of Yarim in her merciless grasp for her entire adult life, propagating the Raven’s Guild’s undisputed reign in black-market trafficking, murder, thievery, assassination, and a host of even more brutal crimes, raising their skullduggery to the level of pure artistry.
Dranth, the man who loved and respected her more than anyone in the world, believed her to be Evil Incarnate, and more—he believed she was invulnerable.
Yet someone had managed to kill her, to rip her head from her shoulders, beheading her while alive.