Lynn Abbey - Dark Sun - Chronicles of Athas 05 - The Rise and Fall of Dragon King

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Chronicles of Athas
Book Five
The Rise and Fall of a Dragon King
Lynn Abbey
Chapter One
Nameless stars sparkled in the sky above the ancient city of Urik, casting a pale light on its black
velvet fields, silver silk waterways, and the firelight jewels of its encircling market villages. On the
towering walls of the mile-square city, a score of bas-relief sculptures stood guard in shadow grays and
black, each an image of Sorcerer-King Hamanu, the Lion of Urik. With a sword in one hand and a
scepter in the other, he kept watch over his domain.
A score of bright, sulphurous eyes looked out from the walls of Urik, bright motes of singular,
unmistakable color in the chill, midnight air. Their light could be seen a day's journey beyond the irrigated
fields. The eyes were beacons for honest travelers who journeyed during the cooler nighttime hours and
warnings to covetous adventurers: The Lion of Urik never sleeps, never closes his eyes. King Hamanu's
city could not be taken by surprise or pried from his pitiless grasp.
Within the city's walls, where the gemstone eyes did not shine, men and women wearing tunics of
a similar sulphur color kept their king's laws, their king's peace, which should have been a simple enough
task. Urik did not have many laws and they rarely, if ever, changed. King Hamanu's curfew had not
changed since it was decreed a thousand years ago: Between the appearance of the tenth star after
sundown and the start of the next day, no citizen—man or woman, child or slave—was allowed to set
foot on the king's streets. By starlight, there should have been nothing for the king's templars to watch
except each other.
But since the dawn of time—long before the Lion-King bestrode Urik's walls—the laws kings
made applied only to the law-abiding folk of their domains. Wise kings made laws that wise folk willingly
obeyed. Wiser kings learned that no net of laws could govern everyone beneath them, nor should they
strive to do so. King Hamanu let the pots of Urik simmer nightly, and in a thousand years, they had
boiled over no more than a handful of times.
* * * * *
"Halt!" the yellow-robed templar commanded as he separated himself from a clot of similarly clad
men and women. Here, within spitting distance of Urik's Elven Market, King Hamanu's minions
coagulated for their own safety, traveling in threes and fours, rarely in pairs, never alone—especially at
night. The pair of mul slaves bearing a pole-slung sedan chair came to an easy-gaited halt that did not
jostle their passenger. Four slave torchbearers arranged themselves in a diamond pattern around them.
The muls set the chair gently on the cobblestones. They slipped the hardwood poles out of the carriage
braces, then stood at attention, each resting a pole against his massively muscled left-side shoulder.
"Who breaks the king's curfew?" the templar demanded. The severity of his tone was belied by
the continuing conversation of his peers beside him.
The lead torchbearer, a half-elf of singularly unpleasant appearance, looked down on the human
templar with fourth-rank hemstitching in his left sleeve. "O Mighty One, we bear my lord Ursos," she
answered confidently.
She had had no accent, save for the common accent of Urik, until she spoke her master's name
with the distinctive drawl of far-off Draj. It beggared imagination that a Drajan lord would travel the
curfewed streets of Urik—especially these anarchic times since the Dragon's demise and the
simultaneous disappearance of King Hamanu's Drajan counterpart, Tectuktitlay.
The templar scowled. Whoever rode in the sedan chair, his name—or her name—wasn't likely
Ursos. "By whose leave does Lord Ursos break curfew?" he continued.
The half-elf shifted her torch to her left hand. She was unarmed, as were her five companions:
slaves were, by Hamanu's law, unarmed. By law, all citizens, including lords who traveled in sedan chairs,
were unarmed. Weapons were the templars' prerogative. The fourth-rank templar carried a staff not
quite half as long as the muls' hardwood poles, and the half-elf's torch bore an uncanny resemblance to a
gladiator's club, down to the leather wrapping on its haft and the egg-shaped killing stone lashed to its
base. He repeated himself, "By whose leave does your lord break curfew?" loudly and somewhat
anxiously.
His wall-leaning peers at last abandoned their conversation. The slave's right arm disappeared in
folds of her funnel-shaped sleeve. There was a moment of thick tension in the moonlight until it
reappeared with a small leather pouch, which the templar passed to one of his companions for
examination.
"By your leave, O Mighty One."
"It's all here," the inspecting templar announced, extracting two metallic pieces from the pouch
before passing it to the templar beside him.
"The lion watch over you, then, and your lord," the first templar said as he retreated.
"And over you, O Mighty One," the slave replied, as much a curse as a blessing.
* * * * *
The sedan chair and its escort stopped short of the Elven Market. Without hesitation, the party
turned and disappeared into an alley whose existence couldn't have been discerned with the light of a
score of pitch-soaked torches, much less the four they carried. Some distance into the cramped
darkness, they stopped again. The half-elf rapped once on a hollow, drumlike door, and a rectangle of
ruddy lantern light suddenly surrounded them. The muls carried the sedan chair across the threshold. The
escort extinguished their torches and closed the door behind them.
Inside the vestibule, a person emerged from the chair. With his face obscured by an unadorned
mask and his body swaddled in a drab cloak, it was easier to say what race Lord Ursos wasn't—not
dwarf or mul, not halfling, nor full-grown elf—than what race he might be.
The ragged, menial slave who'd opened the door had run away when he saw the escorted sedan
chair. He returned with another slave, of higher status, who was clad in pale, translucent linen that left no
doubt about her sex. With a soft voice, she showed the escort where to leave the sedan chair, and then
directed them down a corridor, to a door that provided discreet entrance to a boisterous tavern. When
the escort was gone, the vestibule was once again silent—a silence so sudden and absolute one might
suspect magic in the air. Without breaking that silence, the slave led the masked Lord Ursos down a
narrow stairway to a curtained doorway. She bowed low before the curtain and swept her arm gracefully
toward it, but made no move to pass between the rippling lengths of silk.
Lord Ursos strode past her, removing the drab cloak with one hand and the mask with the other
as he swept through the silk into the upper gallery of an underground amphitheater. He was a lean,
sinewy human, with the sunken features of a man who'd indulged his every passion, yet survived. With
the casual contempt of an aristocrat, the lord held out his drab outer garments for a slave at the top of the
amphitheater stairs. The slave hesitated, his arms half-extended.
"My lord," he whispered anxiously. "Who are—?" The slave caught himself; slaves did not ask
such questions. "Do you—?" And caught himself again, in evident despair. No one, not even an elegant
lord, entered this place without an invitation.
Lord Ursos understood. Smiling indulgently, he gestured with a dancer's swift grace. When he
was finished, he held a delicate, star-shaped ceramic token between the tips of his thumb and forefinger.
"Ah—" The slave returned a smile as the token dropped into his hand. He relaxed audibly,
visibly. "Your place is prepared, my lord. If my lord will simply follow me—?"
A place was indeed prepared, a place in the front row, along the rail, overlooking a circular pit
floored with dark sand that sparkled in the light of wall-mounted torches. Another slave, who'd followed
them down the amphitheater's steep, stair-cut ramp, offered the lord a shallow bowl filled with a thick,
glistening fluid. The lord refused with another dancerlike gesture, and the bowl-bearer hurried away.
"My lord," the first slave began, his eyes lowered and his hands trembling. "Is there—? Would
you prefer... a pipe, perhaps, or another beverage, a different beverage?"
"Nothing."
The lord's voice was deeper than the slave had expected; he retreated, stumbling, and barely
regained his balance.
A certain type of man might come to this place for its entertainments, having paid handsomely in
gold for the privilege. All the other men in the amphitheater—there were a score of guests, with several
races represented, but no women among them—clutched bowls between their hands and metal sipping
straws likewise gripped between their teeth. Their faces were slack, their eyes wide and fixed. A man
who disdained the sipping bowl or the dream-pipe was a rare guest, a disturbing guest.
The second slave could not meet this guest's eyes again.
"Leave me," the lord commanded, and, gratefully, the slave escaped, his sandals slapping with
unseemly vigor on the stairs.
The lord settled on the upholstered bench to which his token entitled him and waited patiently as
another handful of guests arrived and were escorted to their appropriate places. Then, while the
latecomers sucked and sipped, a door opened in the wall of the pit. Slaves entered first, wrestling a rack
of bells and cymbals through the sand. Before the melodic discord faded, a quartet of musicians entered,
swaddled completely in black and apparent only as velvet darkness on the sparkling sand.
Anticipation gripped the guests. Someone dropped his bowl. The clash of pottery shards echoed
through the amphitheater, bringing hisses of disapproval from other guests, though not from the patient,
empty-handed lord seated along the rail.
Another door opened, larger than the first, spreading a rectangle of ruddy light across the pit. The
polished brass bells and cymbals cast fiery reflections among the guests, who ignored them. Nothing
could draw their attention from the three low-wheeled carts being trundled onto the sand. An upright post
of mekillot bone rose from each cart, a crossbar was lashed to each post, and a living mortal—two
women and a man—was lashed to each crossbar, arms spread wide, as if in flight.
One of the women moaned as the wheels of her cart churned into the sand. Her strength failed.
She sagged against the bonds holding her to the post and bar. The titillating scent of abject terror rose
from the pit; patient Lord Ursos was patient no longer. He pushed back his sleeves and set his elbows
upon the rail.
When the carts were set, the slaves departed, and the musicians struck a single tone: flute, lyre,
bells, and cymbals together. It was a perfectly pitched counterpoint to the woman's moan. The fine hairs
on the lord's bare arms rose in expectation as the night's master strode silently across the sand.
There were no words of introduction or explanation. None were needed. Everyone in the
amphitheater—from the slaves in the top row of the gallery to those in the pit, especially those
unfortunates bound against bone in the pit—knew what would happen next.
The night's master drew a little, curved knife from the depths of his robe. Its blade was steel,
more precious than gold, and it gleamed in the torchlight when he brandished it for the guests. Then he
angled it carefully, and its reflection illuminated a small portion of the bound man's flank. The prisoner
gasped as the first cuts were made, one on either side of a floating rib, and howled as the master slowly
peeled back his flesh. The lyrist took the first improvisation in the time-honored manner, weaving the
middle tones together, leaving the highs for the chimes and the lows for the flute.
Brandishing his knife a second time, the master made a second, smaller, gash across the bloody
stream. He dipped his free hand in a pouch below his waist and smeared a white, crystalline powder into
the new wound. The bound man gasped and strained against the crossbar. Tinkling cymbals framed his
thin, close-mouthed wail, and the flutist blew a haunting note to unite them.
The bare-armed lord sat back from the rail. His sleeves fell, disregarded, back to his wrists as his
eyes closed and his hands folded into fists. His breath came rapidly as the melody took shape in music
and mortal suffering. The tones were too potent for some of the guests around him; they added their own
whimpering harmonies to the night master's music. Symphony and empathy together sent a shiver along
the lord's spine. But the shiver died before it reached his throat, and he alone, except for the master,
remained silent.
The melody continued to evolve, not attaining its final form until the three captives were bleeding,
weeping, and wailing: an eight-tone trope, four ascending, then the lowest, followed by a three-tone
cascade through the middle range.
The dark passion of the night master's music quieted the lord's restless thoughts and gave him a
moment of peace, but, born from mortal flesh as it was, the melody ended all too soon. One by one the
captive voices failed. Where there had been music, only meat remained. The master departed, and then
the musicians, the guests, and the slaves, also, until the lord was alone.
Utterly alone.
His lips parted, and music, at last, rose from his throat: an eight-tone trope, four ascending, then
the lowest, followed by a three-tone cascade through the middle range.
* * * * *
Much later, when all but Urik's rowdiest taverns had fallen into a stupor and templars drowsed
against their spears, the midnight peace of one humble dwelling—a tiny room tucked beneath roof-ribs,
broiling by day and frigid by night—was broken by an infant's angry squalling. The mother, sleeping on a
rag-and-rope bed beside her man, awoke at once, but kept her eyes squeezed shut, as if sheer denial or
force of will could quiet her unhappy daughter.
It was a futile hope. Tooth fever, that's what the infant's malady was called by the widowed
crones, who sat all day beside the neighborhood wellhead. The baby would cry until her teeth came in
and the swelling in her gums subsided. Both mother and daughter were lucky to have gotten any sleep at
all. "Do something," the man grumbled, rolling away from her, taking her blanket with him to pile over
his ears.He was a good man: never drank, never raised his voice or fist, but went out at dawn each
morning and sweated all day in the kiln-blast of his uncle's pottery. He was afraid of his daughter,
astonished that something so pale and delicate would, if Fortune's wheel were as round and true as his
uncle's, someday call him Father. He wanted to do well by his offspring, but now, when all she needed
was warm hands and a swaying shoulder, he was reduced to surly helplessness. So, the woman swung
her legs over the side and swept her tangled hair out of her eyes.
There was light in the room. She silently cursed herself for leaving the lamp lit. An open flame was
a danger to them—her man and her daughter and every other mortal in the neighborhood. It was also a
waste of oil, a waste of money, which was scant these days, with her unable to work. In the instant
before her vision cleared, the mother saw disaster in her mind's eye: her man, groggy because he hadn't
slept and clumsy for the same reason, blundering against the kiln, screaming, and dooming them all to
poverty, to death.
With that image fresh in her thoughts, she was too distracted to cry out when she saw another
woman—a stranger—sitting on the stool beside her daughter's cradle. She reached blindly for the lamp,
which was not lit. The light came from the stranger; it surrounded her and the infant.
"Lame..."
That word, her man's name, came weakly from the mother's tongue. It failed to rouse Lame, but
drew the attention of the dark-haired stranger whose eyes, when she turned, were huge in her face and
gray as the infant's.
"Rest you, now," the stranger said in a sweet and gentle twilight voice. "Rest you... Cissa. Come
the sun and your daughter's pain will be gone."
"Yes," Cissa agreed slowly. A part of her was caught in panic: a stranger in her home, a stranger
holding her daughter. A stranger whom Cissa would have remembered if she'd ever seen her before, a
stranger who sat bathed in light that had no source. "Lame—" she called more strongly than before.
"Larne.""Rest you, both," the stranger insisted. "The child is safe with me."
"Safe," Cissa repeated. The stranger's smile wrapped its arms around her and vanquished her
panic. "Safe. Yes, safe."
"None in Urik is safer," the stranger agreed, and Cissa, at last, believed.
She returned to the rumpled bed where her man's warm shadow beckoned.
The radiant, gray-eyed stranger gave her attention back to the infant. She was not one for gurgly
noises or nonsense syllables or mimicking a kank's jointed antennae with her fingers. She charmed the
pained and weary child with a wordless lullaby.
The infant's fists unclenched. Her little furrowed face relaxed when the stranger stroked her
down-covered scalp. The child reached for a thick lock of the stranger's midnight hair. They shared a
trilling note of laughter, and then the stranger sang again—an eight-tone trope, four ascending, then the
lowest, then a three-tone cascade through the middle range—theme and variations until the tooth had
risen and the infant slept easy in a stranger's arms.
* * * * *
He began his journey when the air was cool and the day no more than a bright promise above the
eastern rooftops. With his bowl tucked inside his tattered, skimpy tunic and his crutch wedged beneath
his shoulder, he made his way from the alley where he slept, safe and warm beneath a year's
accumulation of rubbish, to the northwest corner of Joiner's Square. The baker's shop on that corner had
a stoop that was shaded all day and wider than its door—wide enough for a crippled beggar to sit, plying
the trade he'd never chosen to master. He inconvenienced no one, especially Nouri, the baker, who
sometimes let him scrounge crumbs off the floor at the end of the day.
It was a long journey from his alley to the baker's shop, and a treacherous one. The least mistake
planting his crutch among the cobblestones would throw him off his unsteady feet. He was careful,
wriggling the crutch a bit each time he set it down before entrusting it with his weight and balance.
When he was sure of it, he'd grip the shaft in both hands and then—holding his breath, always
holding his breath for that risky moment—hop his good leg forward. Then he'd drag his crippled leg, his
aching, useless leg, afterward.
His shoulder hurt worse than the leg by the time he could see the baker's stoop ahead of him. The
beggar-king to whom he paid his dues said he should forego the crutch, said he'd live longer and earn
more if he dragged himself along with his arms. And it might come to that. Some days the sun was
noon-high before the numbness in his arm subsided from his morning journey. He had pride, though. He'd
stand and walk as best he could until he had no choice, and then, maybe, he'd simply choose to die.
But not today.
"Hey, cripple-boy! Slow down, cripple-boy."
A handful of gravel came with the greeting. He shook it off and planted his crutch in the next
likely spot. He couldn't slow down, not without stopping entirely; didn't dare twist around to count his
tormentors. Bullies, he knew from long experience, seldom went alone.
"Hey, cripple-boy! I'm talkin' to you, cripple-boy!"
"Cripple-boy—what's the difference between you an' a snake?"
There were three of them, he had that knowledge before a meaty hand clamped across the back
of his neck and shook him hard.
"Snakes don't die till sundown, cripple-boy, but you're gonna die now."
He hit the cobblestones with his crutch in his hands, for all the good it would do him. He didn't
recognize them, certainly hadn't ever done them any harm. That wouldn't matter. They were predators;
he was prey. It was as simple as that, and as quick. There was an alley behind him, and though a whole
man would undoubtedly say that its shadows and debris would work to a predator's advantage, not his,
he dragged himself toward it, still clinging to his crutch.
The trio behind were whole men and able to see advantage in the alley. The nearest wrested the
crutch away while the other two seized the beggar by the hair and belt and threw him bodily into the
alley's deep shadows.
* * * * *
Nouri couldn't have said what drew him out of his shop's oven-filled courtyard and put him at the
counter at just that moment. Perhaps he'd had a reason and forgotten it. Dawn was the end of his day.
His customers were workmen, laborers who bought their bread first thing in the morning, ate what they
needed, and took the crusts home to feed their families when their work was done. Perhaps, though, it
was the Lion's whim: an urge of fortune best blamed on Urik's mighty king. Either way, or something else
entirely, Nouri was behind the counter, staring out the open door, when the adolescent thugs seized the
beggar. His beggar.
Father had always said a beggar was good for business—a polite and clean beggar with an
obvious but not hideous deformity. The crippled boy was all that, and more: His wits weren't afflicted. He
kept an eye on the street, an open ear for passing conversation, for thieves and thugs and, on occasion,
profit. If the boy had ever asked, Nouri would have given him a nighttime place beneath the counter.
But the boy was proud, in his way; he wouldn't take charity, not above his place on the stoop or a few
broken crusts of bread.
Nouri was always a bit relieved when he heard the boy thump and settle on the stoop. Urik was
a dangerous place for anyone who didn't have a door to lock himself behind. In his heart, Nouri had
known that the morning would come when the beggar wouldn't appear. But he hadn't imagined the boy
would come to his end not fifty paces from his shop's stoop.
The tools of Nouri's trade hung on the wall behind him. Not least among them was the
wedge-shaped mallet he used to beat down the risen dough between kneadings; it could be used for
beating down other things... murderous young thugs who thought a crippled boy was fair game.
Nouri's wife, Maya, and his three journeymen were in courtyard unloading the oven. Maya would
have stopped him if she'd seen him with the mallet in his hand, heading out the door. And the journeymen
would have been some assurance of his own safety: he was bigger than any of the youths, but not all of
them together. If he'd taken the time to think at all, he might well have thought better of justice. Urik had
enough beggars, and his stoop was an attractive place for their trade; he'd have another soon enough.
Nouri wasn't a templar or a thug; he'd never struck a man in anger, not even his apprentices, who
deserved a beating now and again.
But Nouri didn't stop to think. He crossed the street and charged down the alley at a flat-out run.
With a backhand swing of the mallet, he caught the laggard of the trio from behind. The youth went down
with a shout that alerted his companions, the biggest of whom was also the closest. Paste-faced with fear,
the thug tried to defend himself with the crippled boy's crutch, but the weight of Nouri's mallet swept the
lighter shaft aside.
The baker delivered a blow that shattered teeth and released a spray of blood and saliva from the
thug's mouth. Nouri was defenseless and vulnerable in the wake of the violence he'd done, but the third
thug didn't linger to press his advantage. The last youth hied himself out of the alley without a backward
glance for his bloodied and fallen companions.
"Get out," Nouri suggested in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own. "Get out now, and don't
show your faces around here again."
It was good advice, and Bloodymouth retained the wit to take it. He hauled his stunned
companion to his feet, and with arms linked around each other for support, they beat a clumsy retreat to
the street.
With his free hand, Nouri retrieved the undamaged crutch. Aside from his own pounding pulse
and ragged breathing, there were no other sounds in the alley, no other movements. Nothing at all to say
he wasn't alone.
"Boy?" he called into the shadows. "Janni?" He thought that was the boy's name; you or bay
were usually sufficient to get his attention when he sat on the stoop. "Don't be afraid, boy. Are you hurt,
boy?" Then, fearing the worst—that he'd been too late—Nouri set down both mallet and crutch. He
waded into the shadows and began flinging rubbish aside before familiar sounds snared his attention: tap,
thump, and drag; tap, thump, and drag again. The cold hand of fear clutched the baker's heart as he
turned toward the light and the street.
Janni, the crippled boy, reached the stoop while Nouri watched. He lowered himself to the flat
stone, same as he did each morning, and secured his crutch behind him before arranging his twisted leg
on the cobblestones where passersby and Nouri's customers could see both it and the wrapped-straw
begging bowl.
"Whim of the Lion," Nouri whispered. His hands had risen of their own will to cover his heart. He
forced them down to his sides, though his fear had not abated, and the foreboding had only just begun.
"What have I done?" he asked himself.
The kneading mallet lay where he'd left it, bloodstained the same as Nouri's shirt. But the crutch...
was gone. The only crutch Nouri could see was the one propped against his shop's wall.
"Whim of the Lion," he repeated and turned back to the shadows as his gut heaved.
* * * * *
Hamanu, the Lion of Urik, King of the World, King of the Mountains and the Plains, and a score
of other titles claimed during his thousand-year rule of the city, could soften be found on the highest roof
of his sprawling palace. The royal apartments were on the roof. The doors and chambers could have
accommodated a half-giant, though the furnishings were scaled for a human man, and austere as well,
despite their gilding and bright enamel.
The king sat at a black marble table outside the lattice-walled apartments and stared absently
toward the east, where the sun had risen an hour earlier. Hamanu hummed a tune as he sat, an eight-tone
trope. A hint of midnight's coolness clung to the shadow behind him. A robe of lustrous silk hung loosely
about his powerful torso. Its dull crimson color perfectly complemented his tawny gold skin and the black
mane that swept back from a smooth, intelligent forehead to fall in thick, shiny elflocks against his
shoulders.
There was no softness anywhere about him. His eyes held the deep yellow color of ripe agafari
blossoms; his lips were firm and dark above a beardless chin. The faint crinkles around his eyes might
have marked him as a man of good humor, who enjoyed a frequent, hearty laugh—but they could as
easily be the brands of a cruel nature.
A sword of steel so fine it shone like silver in the sun rested blade-up in an ebony rack behind the
king. Two darkly seething obsidian spheres sat on cushioned pedestals, one at the sword's tip, the other
beside its hilt. Suits of polished armor in various sizes and styles stood ready on the backs of straw men.
The armor showed signs of wear, but not a trace of the gritty, yellow dust that was the bane of Urik's
housekeepers, as if the king's mere presence were enough to control the vagaries of wind and
weather—which it was.
Hamanu blinked and stirred, shedding distraction as he rose from his chair. A balustrade of
rampant lions defined the roof's edge. He leaned his hand on a carved stone mane and squinted hard at
his domain until he'd seen what he needed to see, heard what he wanted to hear. His face relaxed. His
thoughts drifted to more familiar places: the mind of his personal steward these last hundred years.
Enver, it's time.
The dwarf's answer came in obedience, not words, as he abandoned his breakfast and hurried
toward the roof, shouting orders left and right as he ran.
Hamanu smiled and patted the stone lion lightly on its head. He'd had a satisfying night, last night.
This morning he was disposed to indulgence and good humor.
He was seated behind the marble table again when Enver made his appearance, leading a small
herd of slaves bearing breakfast trays and baskets filled with petitions and bribes.
"Omniscience, the bloody sun of Athas shines brightly on you and all your domain this morning!"
Enver announced with reverence and a well-practiced bow from the waist.
"Does it, now?" Hamanu replied with arch inflection. "Whatever has happened, dear Enver?"
Indulgence did not preclude—and good humor well-nigh demanded—a taste of mortal fear before
breakfast.
"Nothing, Omniscience," the dwarf replied, flustered with piquant terror.
The slaves behind Enver clumped into a cowering mass that endangered the safe arrival of
Hamanu's breakfast. He didn't need to eat. There was very little that Hamanu needed to do. But he
wanted his breakfast, and he wanted it on the table, not the floor or splattered across the day's petitions.
"Good, Enver." Hamanu's smile had teeth: blunt, human teeth, though, like everything else about
him, that could change in a eye blink. "Exactly as it should be. Exactly as I expect."
Enver bobbled a less-enthusiastic smile and the slaves shuttled trays and baskets to the table
before scurrying to the far corner of the roof and the out-of-sight safety of the stairway. Hamanu caught
their relieved sighs in his preternatural hearing. He could hear anything in Urik, if he chose to listen; his
vision was almost as keen. More than that, he could kill with a thought and draw sustenance from a
mortal's dying breath.
And sometimes he did—for no reason greater than whim or boredom or aching appetite. But
today, a loaf of fresh-baked bread was the only sustenance that interested him. With manners to equal
the most pampered noblewoman's, the king broke the loaf apart, then dipped a small, steaming chunk in
amber honey before raising it to his lips.
Fear was intoxicating, but fear could not compare to the changeable taste and texture of a
yeast-risen mixture of flour and water when it was still hot from the oven..
"Enver," Hamanu said between morsels, "there's a bakery at the northeast corner of Joiner's
Square—"
"It shall be closed at once, Omniscience, and the baker sent to the mines," Enver eagerly assured
him, adding another bow and an arm-wave flourish for good measure.
The dwarf was more than Hamanu's steward; he was a templar, an executor, the highest rank
within the civil bureau. Enver's left sleeve was so laced with precious metal and silk that it fell a handspan
beyond his fingertips as he remained folded in the depth of his bow. It was a ridiculous pose and a futile
attempt on Enver's part to hide his disapproval behind an obsequious mask. The fear was back as well, a
fetid vapor in the warming air.
Hamanu ignored the temptation, trying instead to remember if he'd been either more capricious or
predictable of late. He strove to remember each day precisely as it happened, but after thirteen ages it
was difficult to separate memory from dreams. A man like Enver, or the druid-templar Pavek, or any one
of his score of current favorites, had simpler memories and a more reliable conscience.
Today, however, Enver had exercised his conscience needlessly.
"I have something else in mind, dear Enver. The baker there—" He paused, casting his thoughts
adrift in Urik until they found the mind he wanted—"Nouri Nouri'son, he saved my life this morning."
Enver straightened his spine and his sleeve. "Omniscience, may I inquire how this occurred?"
"Oh, the usual way." Hamanu sopped up honey with another morsel of bread, chewed it slowly,
savoring both it and the dwarf's bursting curiosity. "The streets were dirty. I'd retreated into an alley to
cleanse them, but this baker, Nouri Nouri'son, took it upon himself to rescue me with a kneading mallet."
"Remarkable, Omniscience."
"True. All-too-sadly true. He was so intent on saving me that he let the criminals get away."
"Get away, Omniscience? Not for long, surely."
"No, no, dear Enver. They live, two of them, anyway. They seemed—how do you so charmingly
put it?—they seemed to have learned a lesson, and I could hardly overrule the baker's justice, could I?"
Enver shook his head. "But you're watching them, Omniscience?"
"Dear Enver, of course I'm watching them. Even now I'm watching them. But, we were talking
about the baker, weren't we? Yes. I have a task for you. I want two sacks of the finest flour—not
warehouse flour, but my flour, white himali from the palace—taken to that baker's shop on Joiner's
Square, and a purse of silver, too—else he'll fire the ovens with inix dung! Tell him he is to bake a score
of loaves, the best loaves he's ever baked, and to deliver them to the palace before sundown."
The dwarf's grin was as broad and round as Guthay on New Year's Eve. The executor was
quick with numbers and devious despite his rigorous conscience. Nouri Nouri'son could buy a year's
worth of charcoal with a purseful of silver, and unless the man were a complete failure at his trade, he
could make a hundred loaves with two sacks of palace flour.
"I shall be seen, Omniscience," Enver said, more eagerly than before. "The merchant lords, the
high templars, the nobles, too, and all their cooks, I shall be seen by them all, Omniscience. By sundown
the entire city will know you're eating bread baked by Nouri Nouri'son. They'll stand in line outside his
doors." "Mind you, dear Enver, it's a small shop on a small square. I think, perhaps, half the city would
be sufficient. A quarter might be wiser."
"Word will spread, Omniscience."
Hamanu nodded. No one would have noticed three bodies in an alley. No one had noticed the
solitary corpse he'd left in a doorway somewhat south of the square. But a generous gesture, that would
change lives in ways not even he could predict.
"Is that all, Omniscience?"
The king nodded, then called his steward back. If he was going to make a generous gesture to
the man who saved his life, he might as well make a similar gesture to the one whose life he'd borrowed.
"There'll be a beggar on the stoop. A human youth with a crippled leg. Put something useful in his bowl."
"Oh, yes, Omniscience! Will that be all, Omniscience?"
"One last thing, before you return to the palace, hie yourself to the fountain in Lion's Square and
throw a coin over the edge."
Enver's grin faded as his eyes widened. "Omniscience, what should I wish for?"
"Why—that Nouri Nouri'son's bread is as good as his kneading mallet, what else?"
Chapter Two
Hamanu's morning audiences began when Enver left the roof. They ended when the king had
broken the seal on the last scroll in the baskets on his marble table and had summoned, by a
mind-bending prick of conscience, the last petitioner in the unwindowed and, therefore, stifling, waiting
chamber below.
Sometimes petitioners abandoned their quest for a private audience before they felt the
unforgettable terror of their king's presence in their thoughts. Sometimes Hamanu didn't second-guess a
petitioner's misgiving. Other times he pursued the tender-hearted spirit throughout Urik and beyond; he
had that power. After thirteen ages of practice, Hamanu could give his whims wills of their own and set
them free to wander his city as he himself did almost every night, borrowing shape and memory—stealing
them—and making another life his own for a moment, a year, or a lifetime.
Hamanu had a handful of willful whims and stolen shapes loose in the city just then, and touched
them lightly as the day's last petitioner climbed the stairs. A thief who'd shown creative promise in his
craft had seized a woman—a child, really, half his age—and forced her to the ground in the kitchen yard
of her own modest home.
The king seared the thief's mind and flesh with a single thought. The last image that passed
through the thief's senses was the woman screaming as her rapist's hot blood burst over her. Then the
thief was thoroughly dead, and the last petitioner was walking across the palace roof.
The civil bureau templars who prepared the petitions— for fees, bribes, and other favors—had
written the plea of a merchant named Eden. Hamanu had mistaken Eden for a man's name, and mistaken
the mind he'd touched moments ago for a man's mind, too. Everyone made mistakes. Enver
notwithstanding, Hamanu was not omniscient. He didn't know everything and couldn't know everything
about a living mind. The dead were another matter, of course. A dead mind yielded all its secrets, after
which it was useless. Hamanu didn't kill for secrets.
Deceit was another matter.
He watched the merchant—Eden—lift the hem of her gown and step over the blasted remains of
the day's most unfortunate petitioner. Most unfortunate, so far.
Her mind was filled with disgust, not fear. For the corpse, Hamanu hoped. As himself—as
Hamanu, King of Urik—he dealt with few women, save templars and whores. His reputation was
burdened with an ancient layer of tarnish. Respectable families hid their wives and daughters from him, as
if that had ever protected anyone.
This Eden, with her white linen gown, pulled-back hair, and unpainted face, was the epitome of
respectability. Far more respectable than the young nobleman—the late, young nobleman—whose
bowels were beginning to stink in the brutal sunlight.
Hamanu didn't truly mind that Renady Soleuse had inherited his estate through the proven
expedient of slaughtering his father and his brothers and the rest of his inconvenient kin; link's king didn't
meddle in family affairs. And Hamanu wasn't outraged that the accusations of water-theft Renady leveled
against his neighbors were whole-cloth lies; audacity was, in truth, a reliable pathway to royal favor. But
the young man had lied when Hamanu had asked questions about the financial health of the Soleuse
estate, and worse, the fool had counted on a defiler charlatan's lizard-skin charm to protect him while he
lied. Hamanu killed for deceit.
The hereditary honor of Soleuse had been extinguished with thought and fire, both somewhat
sorcerous in origin and wielded with a soldier's precision. Now, Hamanu and Urik were short a noble
family to manage the farms and folk the Soleuse had been lord to. Most likely he'd offer the honor to
Enver. After more than an age overseeing a king's private life, Hamanu judged that the affairs of a noble
estate should be child's play for the likes of Enver. But, perhaps he'd offer the spoils of Soleuse to this
Eden, this plain half-elf woman with a man's name.
He'd hate to have to kill her. Two petitioners in one morning: that was both careless and wasteful.
"Why are you here?" Hamanu asked. His templars had written that she offered trade. No surprise
there: she was a merchant; trade was her life's work. But, what sort of trade? "Recount."
She hesitated, moistening her lips with a pasty tongue and wrinkling her linen gown between
anxious fingers. "O Mighty King of Urik, King of Athas, King of the Mountains—" Her face turned as
pale as her gown: she'd lost the rhythm of his titles and her mind—Hamanu knew for certain—had gone
blank. "And so on," he said helpfully. "You have my attention."
"I am charged with a message from my husband, Chorlas, colleague of the House of Werlithaen."
"I know the name Werlithaen," Hamanu admitted. As the name implied, the Werlithaen were
elves. Three generations back, they'd been elves who'd exchanged their kank herds for the tumult of
Urik's almost-legal Elven Market. About an age ago, a few of the tribe had abandoned the Market for
the civilized ways of the merchant houses. A step down, no doubt, in the eyes of the Werlithaen kindred,
and sufficient to account for Eden's plain, diluted features.
The petition had mentioned trade, not a message, but knowledge was sometimes more valuable
than water or gold and a sound basis for trade. Eden hadn't yet deceived him.
"What manner of message?" the king continued, curious as to the sort of bargain this woman
would offer.
Eden made what appeared to be another nervous gesture, fondling the large, pale-green ceramic
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