Turtledove, Harry - Time of Troubles 03 - The Thousand Cities

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The Thousand Cities
Book Three of
The Time of Troubles
by Harry Turtledove
Del Rey, 1997
ISBN: 0-345-38049-5
I
Abivard son of Godarz stared through sea mist to the east over the strait called the
Cattle Crossing toward Videssos the city. The sun gleamed off the gilded globes the
Videssians had set on spires atop the countless temples they had built to honor Phos,
their false god. Abivard's left hand twisted in the gesture Makuraners used to invoke
the God, the only one they reverenced.
"Narseh, Gimillu, the lady Shivini, Fraortish eldest of all, let that city fall into my
hands," he murmured. He'd lost track of how many times he'd beseeched the Prophets
Four to intercede with the God on his behalf, on behalf of Makuran, on behalf of
Sharbaraz King of Kings. As yet his prayers remained unanswered.
Beside him Roshnani, his wife, said, "It seems close enough to reach out and
pluck, like a ripe fig from a tree."
"Scarcely the third part of a farsang from one side of that water to the other," he
agreed, setting a hand on her shoulder. "Were it land, a man could walk thrice so far
in an hour's time. Were it land—"
"It is not land," Roshnani said. "No point wasting time thinking what you might
do if it were."
"I know," he answered. They smiled at each other. Physically they were very
different: she short, round-faced, inclined to plumpness; he lean and angular, with
brooding eyes beneath bristling brows. But they shared a commonsense practicality
unusual both in their own folk—for Makuraners were given to extravagant
melodramatics—and in the devious, treacherous Videssians. After a decade and more
of marriage no one knew Abivard's mind better man Roshnani, himself often
included.
The sun beat down on his head. It was not nearly so fierce as the summer sun that
blazed down on Vek Rud domain, where he'd grown to manhood. Still, he felt its
heat: he'd lost the hair at the back of his crown. Godarz had boasted a full head to his
dying day, but the men of his mother, Burzoe's, family, those who lived long enough,
went bald. He would rather not have followed in their footsteps, but the choice did not
seem to be his.
"I wonder how the domain fares these days," he murmured. Formally, he was still
its dihqan—its overlord—but he hadn't seen it for years, not since just after Sharbaraz
had overthrown Smerdis, who had stolen the throne after Sharbaraz' father, Peroz
King of Kings—along with Abivard's father, Godarz, along with a great host of other
nobles, very nearly along with Abivard himself—had fallen in an attack gone
disastrously awry against the Khamorth nomads who roamed the Pardrayan plain
north of Makuran.
His younger brother, Frada, ran Vek Rud domain these days. Sharbaraz had flung
Abivard against the Empire of Videssos when the Videssians had overthrown
Likinios, the Avtokrator who'd helped restore the King of Kings to his throne in
Mashiz. Videssian civil strife made triumphs come easy. And so, these days, all of
Videssos' westlands lay under the control of Makuran through the armies Abivard
commanded. And so—
Abivard kicked angrily at the beach on which he walked. Sand spurted under the
sole of his sandal. "Back in Mashiz that last third of a farsang looks easy to cross to
Sharbaraz. What a tiny distance, he's written to me. May his days be long and his
realm increase, but—"
"And who has done more than you to increase his realm?" Roshnani demanded,
then answered her own question: "No one, of course. And so he has no cause to
complain of you."
"If I do not give the King of Kings what he requires, he has cause to complain of
me," Abivard answered. "His Majesty does not understand the sea." Through
Makuran's long history, few men had ever had occasion to understand the sea. A
handful of fishing boats sailed on the landlocked Mylasa Sea, but, before Videssos'
recent collapse, the writ of the King of Kings had not run to any land that touched the
broad, interconnected waters of the ocean. Sharbaraz thought of a third of a farsang
and saw only a trivial obstacle. Abivard thought of this particular third of a farsang
and saw—
Oars rhythmically rising and falling, a Videssian war dromon centipede-walked
down the middle of the Cattle Crossing. The choppy little waves splashed from the
greened bronze beak of its ram; Abivard could see the dart thrower mounted on its
deck and the metal siphons that spit liquid fire half a bowshot. Videssos' banner, a
gold sunburst on blue, snapped in the breeze from a flagstaff at the stern.
He did not know how many such dromons Videssos possessed. Dozens, certainly.
Hundreds, probably. He did know how many he possessed. None. Without them his
army could not leap over that last third of a farsang. If he tried getting a force across
in the few fishing boats and merchantmen he did command—most of those had fled
away from the westlands whither he could not pursue them—there would be a great
burning and slaughter, and the green-blue waters of the Cattle Crossing would redden
with blood for a while.
And so, as he had for almost two years, he stared longingly Tough sea mist over
the water toward Videssos the city. He had studied the single seawall and the great
double land wall not only with his eyes but also through detailed questioning of
scores of Videssians. Could he but put his siege engines alongside those walls, he
thought he could breach them. No foreign foe had ever sacked Videssos the city.
Great would be the loot from that plundering.
"Let me but put them alongside," he muttered.
"May the God grant that you do," Roshnani said. "May she grant you the wisdom
to see how it can be accomplished."
"Yes, may he," Abivard said. They both smiled. The God, being of unlimited
mutability, was feminine to women and masculine to men.
But then Abivard turned his gaze back toward the capital of the Empire of
Videssos. Roshnani's head swung that way, too. "I know what you're looking for," she
said.
"I expected you would," Abivard answered. "Old Tanshar gave me three
prophecies. The first two came true years ago, but I have yet to find a silver shield
shining across a narrow sea." He laughed. "When Tanshar spoke those words, I'd
never seen any sea, let alone a narrow one. But with so much that glitters in Videssos
the city, I've never yet seen light sparking from a silver shield. Now I begin to wonder
if the Cattle Crossing was the sea he meant."
"I can't think of any other that would be," Roshnani said, "but then, I don't know
everything there is to know about seas, either. Pity we can't ask Tanshar what he
meant."
"He didn't even know what he'd said in the prophetic fit, so strongly did it take
him," Abivard said. "I had to tell him, once his proper, everyday senses came back."
He sighed. "But even had he known, we couldn't call him back from his pyre." He
kicked at the sand again, this time with a frustration different from that of a man
thwarted of his prey. "I wish I could recognize the answers that spring from
foretelling more readily than by spotting them as they've just passed. I shall have to
speak to my present wizard about that."
"Which one?" Roshnani asked. "This new Bozorg or the Videssian mage?"
Abivard sighed again. "You have a way of finding the important questions. We've
spent so long in Videssos since Likinios' fall, we've come to ape a lot of imperial
ways." He chuckled. "I'm even getting a taste for mullet, and I ate no sea fish before
these campaigns began."
"Nor I," Roshnani said. "But it's more than things like fish—"
As if to prove her point, Venizelos, the Videssian steward who had served them
since they had drawn near the imperial capital, hurried up the beach toward them. The
fussy little man had formerly administered an estate belonging to the Videssian
logothete of the treasury. He'd changed masters as readily as the estate had.
If the Videssians ever reclaimed this land, Abivard had few doubts that Venizelos
would as readily change back.
The steward went down on one knee in the sand. "Most eminent sir," he said in
Videssian, "I beg to report the arrival of a letter addressed to you."
"I thank you," Abivard answered in Makuraner. He probably would have used
Videssian himself had he and Roshnani not been talking about the Empire and its
influence on their lives. He'd learned that speech in bitter exile in Serrhes, after
Smerdis had driven Sharbaraz clean out of Makuran. Then he'd wondered if he'd see
his homeland again or be forced to lived in Videssos forevermore.
He shook his mind off the past and followed Venizelos away from the beach, back
toward the waiting dispatch rider. The suburb of Across, so called from its position
relative to Videssos the city, was a sad and ragged town these days. It had gone back
and forth between Makuran and Videssos several times in the past couple of years. A
lot of its buildings were burned-out shells, and a lot of the ones that had escaped the
fires were wrecks nonetheless.
Most of the people in the streets were Makuraner soldiers, some mounted, some
afoot. They saluted Abivard with clenched fists over their hearts; many of them
lowered their eyes to the ground as Roshnani walked past. That was partly politeness,
partly a refusal to acknowledge her existence. By ancient custom, Makuraner
noblewomen lived out their lives sequestered in the women's quarters first of their
fathers' houses, then of their husbands'. Even after so many years of bending that
custom to the breaking point, Roshnani still found herself an object of scandal.
The dispatch rider wore a white cotton surcoat with the red lion of Makuran
embroidered on it. His whitewashed round shield also bore the red lion. Saluting
Abivard, he cried, "I greet you in the name of Sharbaraz King of Kings, may his years
be many and his realm increase!"
"In your person I greet his Majesty in return," Abivard answered as the horseman
detached a leather message tube from his belt. The lion of Makuran was embossed
there, too. "I am delighted to be granted the boon of communication from his flowing
and illustrious pen."
No matter how well the Makuraner language lent itself to flowery flights of
enthusiasm, Abivard would have been even more delighted had Sharbaraz let him
alone and allowed him to get on with the business of consolidating his gains in the
westlands of Videssos. Mashiz lay a long way away; why the King of Kings thought
he could run the details of the war at such a remove was beyond Abivard.
"Why?" Roshnani had said once when he had complained about that. "Because he
is King of Kings, that's why. Who in Mashiz would presume to tell the King of Kings
he cannot do as he desires?"
"Denak might," Abivard had grumbled. His sister was Sharbaraz' principal wife.
Without Denak, Sharbaraz would have stayed mured up forever in Nalgis Crag
stronghold. He honored her still for what she had done for him, but in their years of
marriage she'd borne him only daughters. That made her influence on him less than it
might have been.
But Sharbaraz might well not have heeded her had she given him sons. Even in
the days when he had still been fighting Smerdis the usurper, he'd relied most of all
on his own judgment, which, Abivard had to admit, was often good. Now, after more
than a decade on the throne, Sharbaraz did solely as his will dictated— and so,
inevitably, did the rest of Makuran.
Abivard opened the message tube and drew out the rolled parchment inside. It was
sealed with red wax that, like the tube and the messenger's surcoat and shield, bore
the lion of Makuran. Abivard broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. His lips
moved as he read: "Sharbaraz King of Kings, whom the God delights to honor, good,
pacific, beneficent, to our servant Abivard who does our bidding in all things:
Greetings. Know that we are imperfectly pleased with the conduct of the war you
wage against Videssos. Know further that, having brought the westlands under our
hand, you are remiss in not extending the war to the very heart of the Empire of
Videssos, which is to say, Videssos the city. And know further that we expect a
movement against the aforementioned city the instant opportunity should present
itself and that such opportunity should be sought with the avidity of a lover pursuing
his beloved. Last, know also that our patience in this regard, appearances to the
contrary notwithstanding, can be exhausted. The crown stands in urgent need of the
last jewel remaining to the downfallen Empire of Videssos. The God grant you zeal. I
end."
Roshnani stood beside him, also reading. She was less proficient at the art than he
was, so he held the parchment till she was through. When she was, she let out an
indignant snort. Abivard's glance warned her to say nothing where the dispatch rider
could hear. He was sure she wouldn't have even without that look, but some things
one did without thought.
"Lord, is there a reply?" the dispatch rider asked.
"Not one that has to go back on the instant," Abivard answered. "Spend the night
here. Rest yourself; rest your horse. When morning comes, I'll explain to the King of
Kings how I shall obey his commands."
"Let it be as you say, lord," the dispatch rider answered submissively.
To the messenger Abivard was lord, and a great lord at that: brother-in-law to the
King of Kings, conqueror of Videssos' westlands, less exalted by blood than the high
nobles of the Seven Clans, perhaps, but more powerful and prestigious. To every man
of Makuran but one he was somebody with whom to reckon. To Sharbaraz King of
Kings he was a servant in exactly the same sense as a sweeper in the royal palace in
Mashiz was a servant. He could do more things for Sharbaraz than a sweeper could,
but that was a difference of degree, not of kind. Sometimes he took his status for
granted. Sometimes, as now, it grated.
He turned to Venizelos. "See that this fellow's needs are met, then join us back at
our house."
"Of course, most eminent sir," Venizelos said in Videssian before falling into the
Makuraner language to address the dispatch rider. These days Abivard was so used to
lisping Videssian accents that he hardly noticed them.
The house where he and Roshnani stayed stood next to the ruins of the palace of
the hypasteos, the city governor. Roshnani was still spluttering furiously when she
and Abivard got back to it. "What does he want you to do?" she demanded. "Arrange
a great sorcery so all your men suddenly sprout wings and fly over the Cattle
Crossing and down into Videssos the city?"
"I'm sure the King of Kings would be delighted if I found a wizard who could
work such a spell," Abivard answered. "Now that I think on it, I'd be delighted
myself. It would make my life much easier."
He was angry at Sharbaraz, too, but was determined not to show it. The King of
Kings had sent him irritating messages before, then had failed to follow up on them.
As long as he stayed back in Mashiz, real control of the war against Videssos
remained in Abivard's hands. Abivard didn't think his sovereign would send out a new
commander to replace him. Sharbaraz knew beyond question that he was loyal and
reliable. Of whom else could the King of Kings say that?
Then he stopped worrying about what, if anything, Sharbaraz thought. The door—
which, but for a couple of narrow, shuttered windows, was the only break in the plain,
to say nothing of dingy and smoke-stained, whitewashed facade of the house—came
open, and his children ran out to meet him.
Varaz was the eldest, named for Abivard's brother who had fallen on the
Pardrayan steppe with Godarz, with so many others. He had ten years on him now
and looked like a small, smoothfaced, unlined copy of Abivard. By chance, even his
cotton caftan bore the same brown, maroon, and dark blue stripes as his father's.
"What have you brought me?" he squealed, as if Abivard had just come back from a
long journey.
"The palm of my hand on your backside for being such a greedy thing?" Abivard
suggested, and drew back his arm as if to carry out that suggestion.
Varaz set his own hand on the hilt of the little sword—not a toy but a boy-sized
version of a man's blade—that hung from his belt. Abivard's second living son
grabbed his arm to keep him from spanking Varaz. Shahin was three years younger
than his brother; between them lay another child, also a boy, who'd died of a flux
before he had been weaned.
Zarmidukh grabbed Abivard's left arm in case he thought of using that one against
Varaz. Unlike Shahin, who as usual was in deadly earnest, she laughed up at her
father. In all her five years she'd found few things that failed to amuse her.
Not to be outdone, Gulshahr toddled over and seized Varaz' arm. He shook her
off, but gently. She'd had a bad flux not long before and was still thin and pale
beneath her swarthiness. When she grabbed her brother again, he shrugged and let her
hold on.
"Our own little army," Abivard said fondly. Just then Livania, the Videssian
housekeeper, came out to see what the children were up to. Nodding to her, Abivard
added, "And the chief quartermaster."
He'd spoken in the Makuraner language. She answered in Videssian: "As far as
that goes, supper is nearly ready." She hadn't understood the Makuraner tongue when
摘要：

TheThousandCitiesBookThreeofTheTimeofTroublesbyHarryTurtledoveDelRey,1997ISBN:0-345-38049-5IAbivardsonofGodarzstaredthroughseamisttotheeastoverthestraitcalledtheCattleCrossingtowardVidessosthecity.ThesungleamedoffthegildedglobestheVidessianshadsetonspiresatopthecountlesstemplestheyhadbuilttohonorPho...

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