“Please clarify,” said the Lord Marshal.
Rhapsody took the ring and held it up to the light.
“Those metal wires are tiny and flexible, but, as you can see, they are sharp, barbed, and easily draw blood. There are about five hundred of them in each ring. This ring is worn internally; if a woman is violated, the rapist’s penis goes through the ring, and the wires catch on however much of it goes through the circle, embedding themselves in the skin of his shaft. Or sometimes just the head, depending upon how enthusiastic he felt when he began the undertaking.”
The three men, ancient warriors of more than a millennium of epic heroism and valor in battle, blanched white.
“While he can disengage from the woman he has assaulted, he cannot disengage his tarse from the ring itself. The wires dig in, and the tiny barbs at the tips anchor like a fishhook into the shaft or the glans, depending on how far—”
“I believe we understand, m’lady,” said Anborn quickly. “Thank you—”
“The man is neither able to walk nor urinate until the ring is removed,” Rhapsody continued, nonplussed. “It must be removed by a healer with experience in such things, which most humans have never seen before. The pain is said to be excruciating, and if the ring isn’t removed in a timely manner, gangrene can easily set in—”
“For the love of the All-God, Anborn, make her stop,” Knapp groaned.
“—and oftentimes the man would need to have his penis cut off, lest he succumb to the gangrene. It seemed a better choice to just remove it rather than to die while it rotted off.”
Anborn was struggling not to laugh and vomit simultaneously.
“I yield to your point, m’lady. This is a—er, Lirin armament?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I am surprised the Lirin have cause for such things.”
A moment before, Rhapsody had been struggling to keep a straight face as she rendered her explanation. The humor drained out of her eyes now like water running downhill.
“That is a circumstance dating back to the old world,” she said curtly. The hard edge in her voice was as sharp as the wires she had been describing, and all three men fell silent as she spoke.
“In Serendair, there used to be a myth among human men, most often human soldiers, that Lirin women had a sweet taste to them, to their skin and lips.”
“’Tis no myth,” said Solarrs, who had been married to a First Generation Cymrian woman of Lirin extraction. “You do taste sweet, m’lady.” When Anborn and Knapp looked at him, astounded and aghast, he quickly corrected himself. “I mean, Lirin women do.”
“Aye,” Rhapsody said seriously. “That’s not the part of the custom that is mythic; the chemistry of the Lirin body is perceived as sweet to the human tongue. To the Firbolg tongue, as well—Grunthor often tells me that our race was always his favorite of the carnivorous palate, followed distantly by deer. The myth is that if a man, generally a soldier, can drink of a Lirin woman between her legs, imbibe the ‘juice of her excitement,’ as they used to call it, he gains some sort of invulnerability or strength in battle, or some other hogwash. It is obviously nonsense.
“Lirin women primarily lived in forests and fields, or in small communities with longhouses and barricades that prevented the human world from catching them alone. But when a Lirin woman lived in a city, as some did, it was not uncommon for her to be standing in the street, a basket over her arm, buying bread or potatoes one moment, and to find herself the next moment in an alley, in the grip of three men or more, with her skirt over her head, being harvested for such juice, shall we say, whenever a human regiment happened to be in the city on leave.”
Solarrs and Knapp looked down at the tabletop. Anborn’s eyes traveled over her face, which was set in a solemn mien.
“And did you live in a city, m’lady?” he asked softly.
“Easton.” Rhapsody folded her hands on the tabletop.
The three men fell even further into awkward silence.
“So, that is the reason that this ring was designed and produced,” Rhapsody continued. “Because a human man was not always satisfied with a beverage, and sometimes wanted more of a meal.”
“Did you design it for use here, in this world?” Anborn’s voice was quiet but steady.
She shook her head and smiled slightly. “No. Grunthor did. He was aware of the custom and took great pleasure in doing so. But it works for almost any woman of any race. It comes in multiple sizes, for women of all internal dimensions. It is a very popular item among Bolg women.”
“Bolg women?” Anborn asked incredulously. “If anything, I would think the race most needing protecting against rape would be human women, from men of the Firbolg variety.”
“Certainly you would,” Rhapsody agreed. “Just as the Spring Cleaning exercises that Roland used to engage in against villages in Ylorc were effective deterrents to marauding killers of women and children—oh, wait. My mistake; the only women and children who ever died in those events were Bolg.”
Again the three men lapsed into silence.
Rhapsody rose from the table.
“Well, now that I have my assignment, I suggest we go and meet the trained soldiers that Ashe has recruited and brought into professional status,” she said, pushing her chair back under the table. “The volunteers and the reserve forces have fought bravely and successfully, but if you plan to hold the northern cities and reinforce the, er, Threshold, you will need to get these professionals deployed quickly and efficiently.”
“Agreed,” said Anborn, following her to his feet. He smiled as he stood, remembering a recent time when he had been unable to do so.
“If I might have a moment, I need to attend to nature’s call—it was a very long ride from Tyrian—and check in on my mare. I shall return momentarily.”
The other two men rose and bowed as she left the tent.
Once she was gone, Solarrs turned to Anborn. “What in the world has gotten into her?” he asked incredulously. “I’ve never known her to be even vaguely like that, so coarse and hardbitten. Is it the war?”
Anborn’s mind was far away, remembering a beautiful child that Rhapsody herself had all but forgotten.
A child with whom she had left a very significant and lovely piece of herself, her true name.
And that most of the world did not know existed.
“In a way,” he said distantly. “But she is your sovereign and mine, lest you forget. Whatever she said, harsh and direct as it might be, was the truth, as any Namer would tell it. And while she has always been humble and without the airs and the insistence on protocol that her position would warrant, do not allow yourself for a heartbeat to believe that I will tolerate any but the most reverent of respect being directed to her face or behind her back. I would happily die for that lady, and even more happily tear the throat out of any man—even an ancient friend and ally—who gainsays her in any way.”
“Understood,” said Solarrs quickly. Knapp merely nodded silently.
* * *
When Rhapsody returned a short time later, she and the three Cymrian soldiers went to the garrisons where the troops were beginning to arrive, eighty thousand in total. The four of them came in through the heavy gate and stopped to watch the muster.
Anborn looked out over Ashe’s trained soldiers, who were taking a last opportunity to practice before assembly.
In nearest sight, a rank of archers was toeing the line, nocked and drawn, before a stand of targeted haybutts three hundred yards across the courtyard. At a shouted command, the troops drew back and let fly, their arrows whizzing from a draw point a hand’s length past each archer’s ear, plummeting into the centerpoint of each target, thudding resoundingly.
Without a single miss of center.
Farther beyond the gate, another rank of soldiers stood before another stand of haybutts, these closer, unleashing upon command round after round of throwing knives, their technique as perfect as Anborn had ever seen.
He stare
d at them in shock.
A smile crawled over his face. It continued to spread, like a wandering river, until it almost reached the corners of his ears, his teeth gleaming brightly in the light.
Then he opened his mouth and he laughed until he could stand straight no longer, doubling over.
19
VIADUCT UNDER THE CITY OF JIERNA’SID
Dranth had visited the palace of Jierna Tal on three occasions before, each time entering through a hidden passageway beneath the city which had at one time been an enormous sewer.
The historic use was clear in the odor that still remained, centuries later.
And while Dranth had cultivated a supremely sensitive sinus system and nasal passages in order to be able to detect infinitesimal traces of poison and other toxic substances, he felt no disgust at such odors, being long accustomed to hiding out in places where they infused themselves into the air.
This fourth occasion was a bit more dicey than the first three, however, for two reasons. The first was the sort that was always a hazard: on all other occasions, he had been specifically invited by the emperor, and so there had been arrangements made for his safe passage into and out of the palace at the highest levels of security. This time, he knew, Talquist was unaware of his impending arrival, and so there might possibly be unexpected difficulties to solve.
Nothing he could not handle.
With any luck, Yabrith would follow his lead and not find himself in harm’s way.
Secondly, this was a visit in which he needed to deliver bad tidings. Obviously one never wished to find oneself in such a situation, but Dranth was still comfortable with the trump card he was holding, a piece of information that Talquist was seeking.
And so he felt their chances of coming to a mutually satisfying solution to the unpleasant failure of the first attempt on the Bolg king’s life were strong.
As they made their way into the viaduct, Dranth scanned the towering arched ceiling in surprise.
The last time they had come through, a massive breeding program was under way, filling the viaduct tunnels with screaming noise. Dranth had not ventured into the bowels of the vast sewer to see precisely what was going on, but it was clear to him that it involved beasts of some size and considerable power.
Now, while some of the sounds and the stench remained, the noise was greatly reduced.
He skirted that part of the tunnel and kept to the far wall which led inside the palace.
Yabrith traveled silently behind him. Occasionally Dranth checked over his shoulder to make certain he was still there, and on those occasions it seemed to him that Yabrith was holding his breath, more in trepidation than in actual reaction to the stench of the place.
Finally, after many hours of traversing the stinking water and cold, black emptiness, Dranth and Yabrith came to the hidden passageway that led into the library of the emperor. Dranth effortlessly found the handhold that opened the passage.
The doorway was obscured by a moving shelf of books which swung open silently, leaving them in direct sight of the center of the enormous room.
A page, a middle-aged man with short salt-and-pepper hair sitting at a table near the floor-to-ceiling books, blinked upon their entry.
Talquist looked up in surprise from behind his desk. He swallowed and inhaled silently, then gestured for them to step into the room. Dranth did so, scanning the remainder of the room, which was empty.
“Apologies, Majesty. The sentries let us in.” It was a lie, but covered their surprise appearance.
“Did they?” the emperor said. “Hmmm. I shall need to get new sentries, it seems, if they are not able to announce my guests better than that. What brings you gentlemen here this evening, from so far away?”
Dranth glanced around, but otherwise did not move. Yabrith followed his lead.
“We bring news you were awaiting.”
The emperor raised his hand to the page.
“Will you excuse us for a moment?” he said, addressing the man, his gaze never leaving the two members of the Raven’s Guild.
“Of course, m’lord.” The page stood and began to assemble his papers and leather portfolios.
“What sort of news?” the emperor asked as the page pushed his chair in at the library table, gathered his materials, and took his leave.
The two men looked at each other.
“The name of the child you were hoping to hear about,” Dranth said as the page opened the library door behind him.
A wide smile broke over Talquist’s face.
“Oh,” he said pleasantly. “No need; I already know it.”
He nodded briskly.
The page swiveled around seamlessly and with great precision fired the crossbow hidden in his leather portfolio, sending a bolt into the back of the guild scion’s head.
Dranth was mostly dead before he hit the floor, where he proceeded to bleed his remaining life out through his eyes.
Yabrith’s own eyes opened wide in shock.
The emperor pointed.
“This man as well, Fhremus.”
Another bolt, another member of the Raven’s Guild was dead on the heavy silk carpet, the magenta coloring of his blood clashing with the scarlet threads of the rug.
From his chair, Talquist exhaled deeply.
“Thank you, Fhremus. Two assassins, just as my information indicated.”
Fhremus inclined his head in the direction of the two bodies on the carpet.
“The first man, his reflexes were prime,” he said, pointing to the body of Dranth. “I could see him beginning to coil as I fired; had I not surprised him, he would have taken both of us, m’lord. There are throwing daggers in his boot and at his wrist that I imagine he could have heaved two-handed and in two different directions simultaneously; I can tell by the way he stood, balanced perfectly. The other fellow, however, seems a bit of a sluggard. With the notice of seeing his friend shot through the skull, he should have gotten at least to draw. That was a long bit of notice. He hardly seemed qualified to be in the company of that other assassin.”
Talquist waved his hand impatiently.
“Nonetheless, I can assure you, he is a member of the same guild as the first. Two assassins, as predicted.” He words ground to a halt and he looked askance at Fhremus.
The supreme commander merely nodded. “Orders now, m’lord?”
Talquist loosed an easier breath. “I assume you are going to want to have them gone over by an expert and stripped of all their weapons and traps and whatnot. Please send that person up. And if you would be so good as to summon the chamberlain and let him know the cleaning staff is also needed, I would be most grateful. Thank you for your vigilance. You are dismissed. Go and find company, libation, or slumber. You deserve a good knob, good drink, or a good sleep—or all three, whatever you desire.”
Fhremus nodded again and took his leave. He hurried down the steps to the chamberlain’s quarters and then to the barracks, making the arrangements that the emperor had requested.
Then he wandered out into the coming night, where the streetlamps of Jierna’sid were just being lit, and the celebratory commerce and cacophony of the city just beginning to rise.
20
Many hours later, after the light stalks had burned down to the stubs and all but the most stalwart of merrymakers had returned to hearth and home, Fhremus remained in the town square of Jierna’sid, a tankard in one hand, the other hand cupping his own chin.
Even the strongest libation had done nothing to numb the raw ache in his gut, an acidic scorching pain that had been brewing there for months.
As the streetlamps began to wink out, one by one, an enormous shadow began to emerge in the half-light, and it fell upon him as he sat on the rim of the Ovris Fountain, whose water-circulating pumps would continue to send its decorative spinning spray skyward through the dark hours of the night.
Fhremus looked up.
Looming above him on a hilltop many streets away, at the Place of Weight, the grea
t Scales rose in the blackness of the night sky, the faraway streetlamps that shone on them constantly, like the ones on Ovris Fountain, casting shadows around the central district of the city.
There was something painful and proud about that instrumentality, a remnant from the Lost Island of Serendair, which had been carefully disassembled in the exodus and transported across the sea to be reinstalled in the place where Fhremus’s ancestors had lived, unaware of its tradition and history. Though he was not descended of Cymrian stock, his whole family had lived for centuries in a land that had once been part of the first Cymrian empire, prior to its dissolving in the Great War and returning to an independent Sorbold ruled by the family dynasty of the Dark Earth.
Fhremus’s family had been loyal subjects and military servants of that Dynasty, which itself had been installed long before by the Scales.
It was his understanding that every major decision of state in the First Cymrian Age, and certainly the history of the dynasty of the Dark Earth, had been decided by those scales. Fhremus was a man of normal life span, as was the rest of his family, and while he knew that there were those alive who had seen those Weighings, had in fact sailed on the very ships that had brought the Scales to this land in the first place, he could only place his faith in the history and traditions that validated their wisdom. Being a military man, it was a way of life that applied to everything he knew.
Or thought he knew.
As if summoned by an internal call, Fhremus drained the last of the brew in his tankard and set it down on the rim of the fountain, then rose unsteadily and walked the darkening streets to the city hilltop where the Scales stood.
When he finally arrived at the Place of Weight, as the sacred hill was known, he stood at the foot of the Scales and gazed up, his eyes still partially clouded by drink, at the massive crossbeam that held the chains of the two enormous plates on either side of the towering stanchion. There was something deep and mystical about the instrumentality, as if it was its own entity with a spirit, imbued with wisdom of ages past considered so irrefutable, so complete, as to make it the judge for all decisions of state throughout two separate eras, two different empires.