CHAPTER VI

Jochiz was aware of the stir coming up the line, the courier passed along from one lesser-captain to the next, and then to Primate Clio, recently restored to her position as commander of the Sacred Guard. Restored, forgiven—humbler and more careful, one might hope, in considering what did and did not serve the All-Holy. Let the stump of her right wrist ever remind her. The emissary of the Old Great Gods did not break his given word, even when that word was pledged to a devil and the enemy of the Gods. Eagerness for approval might grow into pride, he had chastised her, while his sister’s ghost whispered, Let her die. It was to spite ever-spiteful Sien-Mor that he had not finished what his enemies had begun, and left Clio dead with the knights who had paid the price for her folly in seeking to ambush a devil.

Only that. Not any affection he had for the woman.

Desire was not affection.

That lay at the root, therein lay the rot, of all cracks in his soul. Blood. Bone. Flesh. Filth. Flaw.

His thoughts were too easily distracted. It was the ghost of Sien-Mor, whispering into Sien-Shava’s mind. But she was not, she could not. Sien-Mor was long, long dead, and whatever tattered remnant of her had persisted, an echo in Tu’usha’s heart of fire, that was gone, too, murdered by Vartu, and vengeance would yet come for that, for his sister’s death…

It was only his own human weakness to which he gave his sister’s name, and had since first he started to hear her after her death, those faint traitor thoughts trying, failing, to lead him to doubt himself. He had no sister. Tu’usha had never been close to him, to Jochiz. This was the miring humanity of Sien-Shava again, confusing him.

Years he had endured such thoughts, and they had grown stronger over the winter past, much, much stronger. No doubt it was his approach to Marakand. Sien-Mor had nothing to do with that city, and yet…in his thoughts, in human weakness of thought, it brought her to mind.

He was stronger than that. It was only the mortal man within failed him, as ever he had.

It was Clio herself who turned her horse and rode back alongside the orderly column to him, overruling the protest the courier seemed to want to make, taking his message-case from him and dismissing him to find his own place in the march. The knights about the All-Holy saluted their commander and let her through. Their All-Holy rode alone, save for his brother; clerks, commanders, even the greatest of the primates, those who oversaw the circles or had nominal charge of the spiritual well-being of the towns back in Tiypur, were banished to let him ride in peace.

Sarzahn only did not disturb that peace; a comfort, to have him near. When Jochiz had thought, for a moment, that he had lost him…but he had recovered swiftly from whatever spell the assassin had tried to work against him. Weak, yes, but conscious. Exhausted from whatever fight his body had made against the wizardry, or perhaps poison, overcome before Jochiz himself could seek it. Sarzahn had only needed desperately to sleep—the weaknesses of the physical body, even for such as they. Were the rulers of Marakand such fools they thought human wizardry might truly incapacitate so great a being…?

They were, yes.

The priests and primates who rode behind, outside the cordon of his knights, buzzed with their wondering at what news the courier might carry. They remained silent—they had that wit—but he felt their anxiety prickling his skin. Glanced back, swatted them with a look.

Sometimes he dreamed he struck them all down, ripped their souls away or blasted them with lightnings called from a clear sky, only to cleanse his mind of their nagging chatter, their fear and their ambition, their doglike worship, their clinging. Each thought the All-Holy a precious thing of their own, a relationship needed by the god he was. Now. For a little longer.

If the primate of the sixth circle had been among them, rather than farther back in the dust somewhere meditating on his aching bones and thinking dire loathing of his horse, the All-Holy might have summoned him up to ask why the diviners of the sixth had not known in advance if there were some disaster.

The All-Holy might ask why he himself had not.

Prince Dimas should not have pulled ahead. Such care had been taken, using the diviners to keep the marches paced to meet. But there had been too little water; in the past weeks Dimas had pushed on, defying the orders of the All-Holy himself spoken through the fire. Protesting that too many would die, if he did not reach the rising lands and wells and streams about the feet of the Malagru, where the pass of Marakand began its climb.

Perhaps Dimas now paid the price for his folly and Marakand had managed some unexpected alliance with its not-always-friendly Taren neighbours and attempted to break him before he could lay siege to their outer defences.

Jochiz should have known, if so, but he was spread so far, so many threads…He shut his eyes to the dust, closed ears to the muted hollow beat of hooves and feet, the noise of minds that became a babble of hope and fear and boredom and dull pain, the road, the road, the road so long…

Gone. Dimas was dead.

Could have cursed aloud. Might have, if he had been alone. They dared—

It was pointless. Dimas might have been an effective administrator of an army on the march, but he was hardly irreplaceable once Jochiz arrived himself. It was defiance. It was spite. It was—

There was a graver matter, now that he reached out of himself to notice it. There was—an absence.

There were—or were not—souls. Lost. Lost to him, in their thousands. The desert—the town of the desert—they stole what his priests had claimed—

How—?

Abruptly, he felt how the scars of his arms, scars upon scars, scars of the All-Holy’s sacred sacrifice, ached. But that was humanity’s weakness. His brother gave him an incurious look, alerted by his anger, but content to wait for explanation.

“All-Holy,” Clio began, making as deep a bow, due reverence, as she might while on horseback. “A courier has come from the Army of the South, bearing a letter from its primate.” She offered it, awkwardly, in the hand that held her reins. And she never glanced aside to his brother; she fought down, every time she must be in the presence of the two of them together, a seething brew of resentment and fear. Her virtue in doing so, her strength, did not go un-noted. It was for victory in that daily battle that he had restored her to her primate’s rank. “He says—” She lowered her voice against overhearing. “—that Prince Dimas is dead. Slain in his sleep by a heathen assassin.”

“This I know,” Jochiz said gravely, as he took the rolled and sealed letter. Ground down anger, crushed it under his will. Deal with this. The other was beyond reach, for the time being. He should never have left the disposition of the southern road in the hands of humans who judged men by the strength of their faith.

Broke the seal and swiftly scanned it over.

Primate Ambert said nothing that Clio had omitted, only details. Traitor converts had murdered the prince; one was dead, the others were sought among the Westgrasslanders. Some were being questioned by the diviners and at the time of writing, six traitors who spied for the Marakanders had been thus revealed and summarily executed, but the other assassin—there had been one more at the least—remained unknown. He had begun the execution of every tenth Westgrasslander convert and would continue until the guilty confessed or the All-Holy commanded otherwise. The guards who had failed in their duty were dead. Blessed Brother Philon, who had served many years in Emrastepse as Master of the Tower for Dimas and was moreover, in Ambert’s most humble judgement, a man of wisdom and devotion who had been as much a father to Dimas and an example in faith and service as the high servant he was, would be taken into Ambert’s household to continue to carry out his duties of overseeing all things concerned with the administration of the high command for Ambert until the All-Holy might make his own arrangements. He might also, if the All-Holy found him worthy, be well elevated to the rank of prince, since Dimas had left behind no heirs. This honour, naturally, was the All-Holy’s to bestow. Ambert only sought to offer most humbly his unworthy thoughts…

“Fetch my clerk,” he told Clio, whose rank should have spared her errand-running, but did not. “Order a fresh horse for the courier.”

He would appoint Primate Ambert to command of the Army of the South until his own arrival at the Wall of Marakand. And the executions were well thought of. The killer would break, sooner or later, but more importantly, the faithful would see how their god protected his own. That the innocent died was no concern; the folk would know they went to their deaths safe in the service of the All-Holy, if they were true in their hearts, their souls flying to his embrace. He might do what he wanted with Blessed Brother Philon. A man of great devotion and sorrow, which only made his service more faithful. Let him not be made prince, though. They were far from the west; whatever governor had been left in place might carry on governing till the sea ate the rocks away, for all he cared. Jochiz had no intention of marching any of them home, and Ambert need not be encouraged to get above himself, as Clio had. A mistake to show too much favour. He would rebuke the primate, gently, for that suggestion, yes.

And today he had no patience with the stupidity of the devout. Against the cunning of the gods, devotion was useless. Attalissa and Sera would have time to regret they had tried to spit into the wind.

“Go,” he said. “What are you waiting for? Go.”

Clio bowed again and took her leave to obey.

Jochiz beckoned his brother closer.

“Arrogance,” he said. “Do they think him irreplaceable? They could not be so stupid. A gesture of no more weight than a child throwing stones.”

Sarzahn waited gravely.

“Vartu rules the Marakanders, whether the senate knows it or not. Vartu and I had an agreement. She has broken it.” Yes, he would have let her go, ignored her yet, had she wandered off into the wilds with her beast and been content.

And now, with the wizards of Marakand, she guarded the god of Marakand against him, and even the city and its walls. He had reached, testing—felt the edges of his soul tear ragged on the walls of air held against him. Of no more concern than a child’s skinned knee, but a warning of what might happen should he fling himself through, or attempt to, and he could not reach to Gurhan at all, though he had stone of his hill in a casket in his baggage, ready at need for the working.

Caravaneers who so thoughtlessly carried the means of their god’s undoing about their necks and had come down from At-Landi begging to be permitted to carry baggage while the army was still crossing the Kinsai’av. No doubt Primate Ambert had collected such tokens too. His orders had certainly been to do so.

That would come. Vartu could not, in the end, withstand him. Not once he exerted himself. Weakened by what she had made herself. Woman. Human. Mother. Base animal. She lacked resolve. She always had.

She feared him. She always had.

She was hardly even a worthy opponent for him any longer.

“There is a devil on Gurhan’s hill,” he said. “Vartu. Do you remember Vartu?”

No change in Sarzahn’s steady gaze. There was intelligence in those hazel eyes. No mindless animal, and yet—an emptiness that broke his heart.

“Kill her,” Jochiz said. “She has betrayed us.”

For a moment, he wondered if his brother had even understood. Then Sarzahn dipped his head in acknowledgement.

So.

Jochiz thought Sarzahn would likely survive, even against Vartu. He could, himself, intervene, if need be. Sarzahn might be ridden, be a path through the city’s magical defences, if it came to that.

The clerk was riding up to write his orders to the primate of the Army of the South, her smallest portable desk already open and precariously balanced across her pommel, pot of ink uncorked, quill pen in hand. Admirable skill, to write so. He had raised her to the honour of the seventh circle on the basis of it.

He brought their horses together, knee to knee, reached an arm to draw Sarzahn over and kissed his cheek.

“Go,” he said.

Sarzahn mutely passed the reins to him, as if he thought Jochiz might lead the horse like a groom himself, swung a leg over the cantle and leapt down. He was a dog before his paws touched the earth. The escort scattered, clearing a way for him, riders, horses, spooked, but the knights at least disciplined enough not to show their fear.

The dog cut away from their line of march, heading towards the mountains.

Jochiz turned Sarzahn’s mount loose. One of the knights, catching his eye, bowed and took charge of it.

“The All-Holy has need of me?” the clerk asked, unperturbed. She had been much in his brother’s presence and had grown used to his unthinking shifting between forms, which seemed to depend on the convenience of the moment and be hardly even voluntary. Grown too used, perhaps. She found Sarzahn, the man at least, attractive. He must counsel her on that failing. Sarzahn was not to be degraded so in any human’s guilty imaginings.

“A letter to Primate Ambert of the Army of the South,” he said.

The dog was a distant black shape, trotting, following the rising of the land towards the crags of the Malagru. Jochiz lost sight of him at last. Reached, touched, for the reassurance. Felt him respond, a flicker that was not outright irritation, more the shudder of a horse’s skin at the touch of a fly.

Jochiz quashed his anger. Sarzahn had the right of it. He did not need watching. The bond that united them, the desire for the end they hoped to achieve, was stronger than any leash.

Did you give him any choice? Sien-Mor asked. She looked at him, narrow-eyed, from under her lashes, her mouth folded into a tight little smile.

No!

Sarzahn felt that cry, flinched at it.

Nothing. Go on. He pulled himself away, turned Sarzahn loose. If he might not trust his brother, his twin soul, then whom might he?

Not his sister.

She did not ride a shadow-horse alongside the clerk. He did not see her. She was not with him, not even in mind. She was nothing, traitor, justly dead. She had burned, she had been ash beyond resurrection, and Tu’usha’s fugitive soul had suffered whatever doom it was Vartu had carried so long—destroyed, or devoured by the ice.

The clerk’s pen scritched over her paper, dealing with the formal greetings. Dipped into the ink, paused, awaiting his words.

Jochiz cleared his mind.

“In light of the most pernicious murder of the thrice blessed Dimas, prince of Emrastepse and primate of the Army of the South, it pleases the All-Holy to charge his beloved—make that ‘most beloved’—Primate Ambert with command of the said Army of the South until such time as his holiness comes to the Pass of Marakand in his own person…”