Chapter 40
40
T AZAR HY M AAR crouched in the low croft above a saddlery. The stinging stench of urine-soaked hides drying in the shop’s yard wafted into the cramped space, carried on the slight breeze through the open attic window. He stared from his high vantage across the open market square.
The moon hung at the horizon, heralding the start of a new day in another few bells. This early, the shadowy square lay quiet, with shops boarded shut and the surrounding streets mostly empty. A lone cart wended across the cobbles, drawn by a swaybacked mare, the drover half dozing in his seat. The horse hung its head low, equally dull to the world. The poor beast surely knew its path, having trod it countless times.
The pair were emblematic of the entire city.
Locked forever to one path, blinkered to all around.
Tazar intended to change that, to rip off those blinders and end the tyranny of empires. The goal fired his blood, fueled by all he had learned in his two decades in the city.
As a boy, he had studied at the Bad’i Chaa, not as a castrated acolyte, but as a baseborn servant at the House of Wisdom. His mother had taught him to read when he was barely a babe, which gave him the keys to the knowledge locked within those dire walls. He had stolen books, eavesdropped on classes as he mopped floors, and found a handful of mentors among the students who took pity on the scullery boy. Later, it required the trading of intimate pleasures to pay for the continuation of his secret schooling.
His education was unique in other ways, too. He had not been restrained by the rigors of that scholarly prison. He had the freedom to study what he wanted, without fear of breaking scholastic dictates or imperial indoctrination. He had read of open societies, with less stringent mores, and desired it for himself, and later for everyone trapped in their baseborn castes, unable to ever rise above their stations.
Over time, his intelligence was noted. He was eventually gifted to the palace to serve in the royal residence. Fury built inside him with each passing year. Cloaked in the anonymity of servants, he observed how the imri conducted themselves. He noted the bounty of their tables, while others starved. The richness of their garb, while others shivered through a winter’s night. Even their laughter and music seemed only to deafen them to the sobbing and misery all around.
They were unendingly cruel, puffed with haughtiness, and firmly entrenched in their own superiority, a birthright of blood and incest.
He had also spied upon the worst of them.
The Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka.
Her glares made many a servant soil themselves. Her arrogance was boundless—and it was not entirely unwarranted. She was devious in all ways, her intelligence far surpassing that of her siblings. It was that cunning that exposed him when he was sixteen. He had mistakenly tried to befriend her, like he had those at the school. But she saw through his subterfuge, maybe smelled the rancor rising from his skin.
He had barely escaped into the sprawl of the city, where he eventually found a home among the Shayn’ra, who shared his ambitions and stoked it brighter. Only four years later, due to his ruthlessness and cleverness, he rose to lead them.
And I will succeed where every generation failed before.
He pictured Aalia’s face, gilded and painted, shining with the conceit of all the imri. Only days ago, he had been so close to—
A shout rose from the dusty planks next to him. “There!”
He followed where Jamelsh, his third-in-command, pointed to the far side of the square.
Armored horses trotted into view, with riders decked the same. Next came a war wagon bristling with arrows and crossbows. The helms of the dozen guardsmen reflected the low sunlight between the buildings and shone brightly in the shadowy square.
Following them appeared their target: a small cart pulled by four yoked oxen. Though the wagon was tiny, the load aboard needed the strength of so many shoulders and legs due to its sheer weight. Gold was far heavier than grain and oat.
Another war wagon followed behind.
Still, it was a meager escort for a fortune in gold, enough to fund the Shayn’ra for a decade, with enough left over to feed hundreds for the same span of time.
Jamelsh lay on his belly and rolled to one side. “I was not wrong. It is as I heard. A shipment of gold. Headed to the port.”
Tazar nodded. With war rising, the emperor was dispatching the gold to his sailing fleet in the harbor, where the bounty would be spread across the waves, intended to buy the loyalty of brigands and pirates, to use them as spies and saboteurs.
But we will find a better use for it.
Over the past day, the entire city was being roused. Garrisons were on the move. War machines hauled to key positions. Through a farscope, he had witnessed an arrowsprite blasting across the sky in a flume of fire and smoke. Both the Haeshan flag and the Klashean Arms had flown from its stern, confirming the rumors that the emperor was headed to Qazen, to consult his pet oracle. It was accompanied by a small fleet of the same vessels.
Everyone was on the move.
Such chaos served the Shayn’ra well.
Like now.
Someone must have thought this movement of gold would go unnoticed amidst the ongoing commotion, especially this early, when most of the city slept.
But not all of us are in our beds.
Tazar glanced to Jamelsh, who breathed hard, sweat dampening his forehead. His friend flashed a smile, excited for what was about to come. Maybe nervous, too. But they had prepared well.
Tazar slid a covered lantern closer to the window. He waited until the imperial force was in the square—then he slipped the cover from the flame three times, signaling his second-in-command, who was hidden in an attic on the opposite side.
A sharp whistle blew, alerting everyone.
From all the shops surrounding the square, the Fist of God struck at the same time. Arrows rained from on high in a deadly hailstorm. Crossbows spat in coordinated volleys, slicing like a scythe through the square. From every doorway, the Shayn’ra boiled forth, wielding curved blades and whipswords. Knives flew from fingertips in flashes of silver.
Horses and guardsmen fell.
Still, the war wagons responded, firing everywhere. Many of the Shayn’ra dropped, either writhing or dead. But Tazar had drawn almost the entire Fist to this ambush. Over two hundred men and women. They swarmed like ants over the square. The lives lost would be replaced with their weight in gold.
Still, he would not risk their lives and not his own.
Tazar grabbed a coiled length of rope, tossed it out the window, and leaped out. He slid down the line, landed deftly, and freed his own scimitar.
Jamelsh dropped next to him, wielding two hooked blades. When fighting, he was a blur of steel and skill.
Still, such talent might not be necessary. Already, the imperial forces—outnumbered and unprepared—had succumbed to the fierce and sudden attack. Both war wagons were overrun, becoming slaughterhouses. A few guardsmen fled on horseback, rattling their armor, announcing their cowardice.
Tazar noted the gold cart’s oxen all lay toppled in their traces. One still lived, struggling in its harness, bloody and bellowing. Tazar retrieved a crossbow from the dead hands of one of his warriors. The weapon was still cranked with a bolt in place. He lifted the bow one-armed, aimed, and shot the ox through its eye. It stiffened, neck craning back, then dropped to the cobbles.
Anticipating the cart’s draft animals might not survive, Tazar had fresh animals secured in a side street. He turned to Jamelsh. “Go fetch the—”
The man’s blade cut a swath across Tazar’s eyes. He instinctively ducked back, but the tip sliced the bridge of his nose, striking bone hard enough to dance his vision. Still, he had not survived this long by being slow to react.
He swung the crossbow one-handed and smashed it into Jamelsh’s shoulder, driving him back a step—far enough for Tazar to raise his scimitar to the man’s chest. Jamelsh’s expression was agonized, but not because of the swordpoint digging into his skin.
“The Shield has my children,” Jamelsh squeaked out. “They handed me the tongue of my youngest son. Either I agreed to help them, or they’d take apart my sons and daughters, piece by piece.”
Tazar struggled to understand, but clarity came with a massive explosion behind him. The concussion threw him forward, sending his blade through Jamelsh’s chest and striking the stone wall behind him.
Jamelsh slumped, dragging the sword with him. His mouth opened and closed, maybe asking for forgiveness, but only spilling blood. Screams erupted behind Tazar. He spun around, yanking free his blade.
The gold cart had shattered in a fiery blast, casting flaming green oil across the square. Where it landed, it burned through cloth, skin, even bone. He recognized the black alchymy.
Naphlaneum.
Figures ran blindly in all directions, their flesh melting before his eyes.
Tazar backed away, knowing there was nothing he could do. There was never any gold here, only flaming death. The shelter of an overhang above the saddlery door had saved his life.
He searched the square. Others had managed to escape by sheer chance. They gathered in confused groups. He spotted Althea, his second-in-command, on the far side of the square. Her hair smoked, but she hollered for everyone to gather to her, to make their escape.
But the battle was not over.
A swyftship swept into view. Then another. Their stern doors lay open. From their holds and decks, shapes bailed out into the air. A half century in number. Wings snapped wide across their backs. Guardsmen kited down through the smoke and screams.
Tazar knew their only hope was to flee, then regather their remaining forces later. He lifted a bone whistle from a cord around his neck, brought it to his lips, and blew a sharp retreat. His piercing signal drew Althea’s eyes. She nodded to him and waved at those who had been rallying alongside her to escape into the maze of streets.
Tazar fled in the opposite direction.
A S THE SECOND morning bell echoed through the city, Tazar hurried across a dark alley. It stank of excrement and old piss—and not just from the rats that scurried from his path. Gratefully, he could not smell all that well, with snot running from both nostrils.
He held a rag against the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood from Jamelsh’s blow. Still, he tasted it on his lips, the iron bitter, a reminder of the betrayal.
He had used the same cloth to wipe away the swath of white paint that had striped his eyes from temple to temple. He had also stolen a byor-ga headgear and robe to further hide his features. As he crossed Kysalimri, hunters scoured the streets, some in armor, others moving more stealthily. Even disguised, he had to kill three men to reach this alley.
He rushed to an unmarked door and knocked a pattern.
A knothole opened in the scarred wood and an eye peered through. He pulled aside his draped coif, revealing his face, then heard the scraping of a bar being lifted. The door swung wide enough for him to rush inside. A portly matron in a stained apron with disheveled gray hair scowled at him and led him down a pitch-black hall toward a glimmer of firelight.
Furtive voices reached him until one shushed them all quiet.
He entered and found a dozen figures crowded in a small room. Several warmed their hands around a small hearth, ruddy with coals. All were bruised, bloody, and sour in outlook. One had a horribly burned face, half hidden under a bandage. The tallest of the group broke free and strode swiftly to him.
“Althea…” he gasped out.
His second-in-command hugged him. “Thank all the gods,” she whispered in his ear before stepping back. She held him at arm’s length, squinting at the ruin of his nose. “You’ll need a healer.”
“That can wait. Even this shelter might not be secure for long.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He told her about Jamelsh’s attack, about how he had lured them into the ambush with that false promise of gold. Tazar finished with a worry, looking around the room. “We don’t know if Jamelsh told the imperium about our series of safe houses.”
“We have dozens,” Althea said. “It’s lucky that we both ended up in this one.”
He offered her a small smile that pained his nose. “Not so much luck. It was simply the closest.”
“True, but if you’re right about Jamelsh spilling our secrets, this would be the first place the guardsmen would look. As they haven’t crashed in here yet, we may be safe.”
He clapped Althea on the shoulder, appreciating her practical cleverness.
But she wasn’t done, adding with a shrug, “Unless they’re waiting for more of us to gather before attacking.”
He groaned. Sometimes she was clever to a fault.
A frantic knocking silenced them. It echoed from the door to the alley. The rapped code was the correct one.
But what if Jamelsh had shared that, too?
He heard the door open, followed by muffled voices. Hurried footsteps led down the hall. Tazar drew his scimitar, heeding Althea’s warning, but it sounded like a lone visitor.
An older boy, too young for even a fuzz of beard, burst into the room. He was flushed and sweating. He hurriedly circled his left eye with a thumb and forefinger in the covert salute of the Shayn’ra. He searched the faces in the room.
“Tazar hy Maar?” he asked.
Tazar leaned toward Althea. “Do you know him?” he whispered.
She shook her head.
The burned man hobbled up. “That’s Bashaar’s son. From the fifth quarter’s contingent of the Fist.”
The boy bobbed his head, confirming this, while pointing to his own chest. “Illias,” he said, offering his name.
Satisfied, Tazar stepped closer. “What do you want, Illias? Why have you come rushing in here?”
The boy held forth a capped tube that dangled a few cords. It was a skrycrow’s harness. “I was told to give this to Tazar hy Maar.”
“Instructed by whom?” Althea asked.
Illias swallowed. “I don’t know. An outlander. He paid me a silver ha’eyrie to deliver it. He claims to be a friend of the Fist. He recovered a skrycrow message, one sent to the Razen Rose. Says Tazar needs to read it.”
Suspicious, he held out a palm. “I’m Tazar.”
The boy looked dubiously at him.
The burned man growled at Illias, “He’s not lying.”
Illias refused to step any closer, maybe because Tazar was still holding his scimitar. Still, the boy reached out and tossed the harness into Tazar’s palm.
Althea held off Tazar from reading it. “Illias, how did you know to come here? To this shelter?”
The boy shrugged. “The outlander told me that Tazar would be here.”
Althea glanced at Tazar with a pinched brow, then returned her attention to the boy. “Illias, what did this man look like?”
“Like most outlanders. Pale skin. But older with an ale-reddened nose.” He brushed back a fall of curls from his brow. “His hair was the color of dry straw.”
Althea turned to Tazar. “Do you know anyone like that?”
He slowly shook his head. “Still, let’s see what this friend of the Fist wants to share with us.”
Tazar uncapped the tube and shook out a curl of black oilskin. The message had already been read, as the wax seal was sliced open. When he held it back together, it did indeed show the five-petaled bud of the Razen Rose.
He unrolled it, pinching the scroll between his fingers. He read the neat lines of script. As he did, his body grew chilled, his breath catching in his throat.
“What does it say?” Althea asked.
“It… It’s a note, dated yesterday, sent from those who kidnapped the emperor’s son and daughter. It says they’ll be crossing the Scarp and heading to Malgard.”
“That makes no sense,” Althea said. “All rumors say the kidnappers were headed north, rushing for Hálendii.”
“But what if they’re wrong?”
Althea shook her head. “It must be a ruse, some trick to lure us into another ambush.”
Tazar was not so sure. “I saw the emperor’s arrowsprite flaming off in that same direction.”
“Right, to consult his Augury. The entire city knows that by now.”
“But what if that’s just an excuse? What if he’s headed to meet those kidnappers to retrieve his son and daughter?”
Tazar pictured Aalia, her lips hard with disdain, her eyes flashing with indignant fire. He had failed to secure her days ago, whereas another had been successful. He remembered the Hálendiian prince thwarting the Fist’s ambush. He had believed the bastard was defending Aalia, but now it was clear.
The prince was merely protecting his own plot to abduct her later.
A masterful stroke, one deserving of respect.
Still, his fist closed hard on his scimitar’s hilt. If Prince Kanthe was truly that clever, was it possible he had not gone north as everyone expected—but headed south instead?
Tazar knew the answer.
Of course he would.
Althea touched his shoulder. “Tazar?”
“Gather all of our forces, those who are still hale enough for fast travel.”
“Why?”
“We’re heading to Qazen.”
“But—”
He lifted his hand, brooking no argument, growing more certain with each beat of his heart. The emperor was there, with only a scant escort. He rubbed his bearded chin, considering his options. Kysalimri had become too dangerous for the Fist. Those that remained would be unable to accomplish anything here.
But if they left for Qazen…
No one would expect the Fist so far from the Eternal City.
He again pictured the Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka. Aalia would be worth more than all the gold they’d lost today.
But his ambitions grew far grander.
Tazar gripped Althea’s arm, trying to share his passion. “We can’t ignore this opportunity—to exact revenge for those killed this day, to strike a blow against the very heart of the imperium.”
Still, he kept silent about one last prospect.
The chance to destroy that upstart Hálendiian prince.