The Demon King: Book Two of the Seer King Trilogy

Dear Baron Damastes & Countess Agramónte,

My thanks for your gracious invitation. But pressing affairs of the greatest import will not allow me to attend your beguilement. My most sincere apologies.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s not good that he didn’t refer to you as tribune or Damastes, but on the other hand it’s good that he didn’t call you Count, but used the title the state gave you, even though it was the Rule of Ten’s actual doing. It’s not good that it’s a printed card, but it’s good that he seems to have signed it himself.” The emperor had recently begun signing his missives with a single initial. “But it’s not good at all that he waited until two hours before the party before sending it.”

“At least he didn’t just ignore the invitation,” Marán said thoughtfully. “But then I wouldn’t expect him to ignore anything from any Agramónte. I guess we just wait, and see what comes next.”

I felt several species of a fool, standing in the great hall of the Water Palace, flanked by stone-faced retainers in the Agramónte family livery of plush dark green coats and breeches, with vests of bright red whipcord, with gold buckles and buttons. I was in full dress uniform and decorations, but without arms.

Marán wore a white lace top, V-necked, with pearls worked into the fabric in a triangular pattern. Her skirt was flaring black silk, with black pearl panels in the same pattern. Her hair was coiled atop her head, and she wore a black lace headdress over it. She wore no jewelry except a necklace of precious stones, each a slightly different shade, the whole a dazzling color wheel. She looked about the grand ballroom, frowning.

“It’s early yet,” I said. “Not much more than an hour after the time on the invitation. You taught me no one but a bumpkin, an ancient, or a fool ever materializes on time.” Marán tried a smile, but it was a poor attempt. There were, so far, only a handful of people here, and those the sorts who’ll attend any event, so long as they’re given food and drink, plus the usual knot of hangers-on who judge an event by the prestige of who’s putting it on, no more.

Amiel bustled up to Marán. Not knowing anything of the dressmaker’s skills, I thought her dress was two garments in one. They both clung tightly to her dancer’s body and were cut high at the neck and ankle. But if this makes Countess Kalvedon sound modestly clad, she was anything but. The first, inner dress, was made of deep red and clear silk. Over that was a sea-green and clear second garment, the clear patches almost but not quite congruent with the other. She wore nothing underneath them, and each time she moved a flash of tanned naked flesh glimmered. Like Marán, she shaved her sex, but unlike Marán she lightly rouged her nipples. In a different mood, and if she weren’t my wife’s friend, interesting thoughts might have come.

“Our own Seer Sinait,” Marán said, a spark coming into her voice. “Isn’t it marvelous?” It was. Marán had held to her idea of a party celebrating the beginning of the Time of Storms. The weather was cooperating, and a tropical monsoon had swirled down from the northern sea. To match it, Sinait had created a storm within the ballroom — drifting clouds, some dark with rain, others climbing high with the threat of great winds; occasional flashes of lightning and barely audible clashes of thunder. But this storm rode across the ballroom at waist level, so it was easy to imagine oneself a godling, or perhaps a manifestation of one of the greater gods, floating through the heavens.

“I especially like — ” Amiel broke off as her husband, Pelso, came up. She smiled tightly, then excused herself for the punch bowl. It was most clear the two were here solely because of their liking for Marán and myself. If either had his preference, they would have been on the other side of the city, and perhaps the world, from each other.

Count Kalvedon bowed. “May I steal your wife, Damastes? She might be willing to dance with me.” Without waiting for a response, he took Marán’s hand and led her off. There were no more than half a dozen couples on the floor.

I decided anything was better than standing here, and found Seer Sinait, who wore her usual brown, but now her garb was hand-loomed lamb’s wool. I danced with her, and complimented her spell. “I wish I could do something more,” she said. “Such as cast some sort of spell that’d work on Nicias’s lords and ladies as honey does for ants. I despise seeing your lady feeling as she does.”

“My only one would involve a certain someone who’s behaving like a spoiled brat, but I won’t chance your vows by using his name.”

I danced with two other women, then with Amiel. She danced well, as if we were one, and very closely. Pelso had disappeared, having made as much of an appearance as politeness required. “Pity that bastard left,” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe with you. Remember, there’s many in Nicias who think we had an affair anyway.” Amiel, when I’d first fallen in love with Marán, had done us a wonderful service, acting as what she called an “apron,” so everyone would think I was carrying on with her. “I could start dancing with you like … like this.” She slid her leg between mine, and moved her hips back and forth. “Sooner or later, someone would notice.”

She laughed, a bit forcedly, but did as requested. “Poor Damastes,” she said. “Madly in love with his wife, and a man who keeps his vows. You don’t drink, you don’t use any herbs … you two will probably end up being the longest-married in all Nicias.”

“How utterly dull,” Amiel said. “But I suppose we each have burdens to bear.”

I admired her for trying to improve my mood, but it wasn’t working. I was about to try some half-witted sally, when the orchestra finished a number. In the momentary hush a laugh brayed across the room. I didn’t need to look to see if a donkey had wandered into the room. The laugh could only belong to Count Mijurtin, perhaps as useless a being as Saionji had ever let return from the Wheel.

At one time, his family had been among the noblest in Nicias, even having two members on the Rule of Ten over the centuries. But that was long ago. Now the count was the only survivor of the line. He’d married a commoner — the rumor was his laundrywoman, to avoid having to pay her bill. The two lived in a few rooms of the family mansion that had once been in a fashionable part of Nicias, near the river, that was now a slum. The rest of the house was abandoned for the rats to glide among the rotting family memories.

Not that anyone ever felt pity for Mijurtin. He was arrogant enough to be an Agramónte, thought himself clever when he was merely rude, was a tale-teller and a false gossip. No one ever invited him to anything, but there he’d be, in the finery of ten years ago, from dusk until the last servant yawned him out at dawn.

His voice was as annoying as his laugh, and now it rasped across the room: “It’s like the Wheel, don’t you know. Last year, they were riding high, this year … Well, mayhap it’ll teach a bit of humility.” Mijurtin suddenly realized how his voice carried, and looked about wildly. In one of his hands, a biscuit dripped unnoticed sauce.

My temper snapped, but before I could stalk across the room Marán was there. Her face was white, set. “You. Get out. Get out now!” Mijurtin sputtered. I was halfway across the floor. He saw me coming, his eyes widened, and he squealed and ran like a terrified hog seeing a hunter.

The orchestra hastily began another melody, but Marán held up her hand and there was instant silence. “All of you. Out! The party’s over!”

Marán, blind in her rage, took the white linen tablecloth under the punch bowl in both hands and pulled. That crystal bowl took two strong serving men to carry, but it weighed nothing against her anger, and the bowl skidded across the mahogany, crashed to the floor, and exploded. Red punch like blood shot across the polished wood dance floor, and the few guests scurried for their coats. The storm beyond could never match the one here.

Marán spun to the orchestra. “That’s all! You can leave, too!” The musicians gathered their instruments.

I held up my hand. “No,” I said quietly, but my voice carried across the room. “Play ‘River-Swirl, River-Turn.’ ”

That song was the one played by a luxury ferry’s band the night Marán and I first made love. It had taken some gold, more work, and a great deal of listening to discover the name of the tune, but it had been worth it when I’d had it played at our first anniversary by the same nautical musicians.

The musicians looked at me awkwardly. One, then another began playing. Marán stood motionless next to the red pool. Servants with towels hovered nearby, but were reluctant to approach.

She said nothing, but slowly came into my arms. As we began to dance, I could hear the last guest hastening away; then there was nothing but the music and the scuff of our feet on the floor.

The dam burst then, and Marán began sobbing uncontrollably against my chest. I picked her up, and she weighed nothing, and I carried her out of the ballroom and up the stairs to our bedroom. I pulled the coverlet back on our huge bed, laid her on it, and slowly removed her clothes. She lay motionless, her eyes fixed on mine. I undressed.

“Would you wish me to make love to you?” She made no reply, but lifted her legs and parted her thighs.

I knelt over her and ran my tongue in and out of her body. Her breathing came a little faster, but there was no other response. I kissed her breasts, then her lips. They were unmoving.

Not knowing what else to do, and barely aroused myself, I slid my cock into her. I might as well have been making love to a sleeping woman. I withdrew. She still said nothing, but rolled on her side, away from me, bringing her knees up almost to her chest.

I gently placed the comforter over her, then crawled into bed. Tentatively, I put one arm around her waist. She was motionless.

I awoke, and it was close to dawn. Rain spattered on the window, and the room was cold. Marán was at a window, staring out. She was naked, and seemed not to feel the chill. Without turning, she sensed I was awake.

“Fuck them,” she said quietly. “Fuck all of them. I — We don’t need them.”

“I’ve had enough,” she said flatly. “I’m going back to Irrigon. Come with me or stay, whatever’s your pleasure.”

Somehow, that pronouncement seemed to calm Marán. She allowed me to lead her back to bed, and almost instantly went to sleep. But I could not. I lay awake until gray light illumined the room. Should I go with her to Irrigon, the great castle on the river that ran through the vast family estates? Anger grew at the thought. No! I’d not run from a fight or a battle yet, and wouldn’t this time. I’d stay here, by Isa, by Vachan, by Tanis! Sooner or later the emperor would come to his senses. Sooner or later, he must.

I dressed and went down to eat. The servants must have worked the night through, for there was no sign whatever of the disastrous carouse.

Marán woke around noon, called for her servants, and ordered them to pack. She kissed me farewell hard, telling me I was a fool and I should come with her. But I didn’t feel any sincerity in her words. Perhaps it would be well for us to be separate for a brief time. Perhaps she blamed me for what had happened.

I watched her carriage, and her outriders, vanish into the hard-blowing storm, and tried to convince myself these problems would quickly pass, and all would be as before. But my thoughts were hollow, and my heart was as empty as the palace.

I thought of writing Tenedos directly, requesting a meeting, a hearing if he wished. I tried composing the note, but threw half a dozen drafts away. My father had taught me the soldier’s old credo: Don’t complain, don’t explain. So I wrote nothing.

I did not, however, sit sulking. Since boredom is such a large part of a soldier’s lot, it’s good there are hundreds of ways for him to stay busy. One of the less comfortable realizations I had in Kallio was how poor a shape I was in. So I rose an hour before dawn, did setting up exercises, then ran for another hour. I breakfasted on fruit and grain, then took instruction in one or another fighting skill for another hour — bow, spear, club, dagger, sword, it mattered not. Karjan, grumbling, trained with me.

Then I went to my study, laid out maps of famous battles, and refought them, generally from the side of the loser. I hated this, just as I hate most exercises that stretch the brain more than the body, but if I was in fact still a tribune, I’d better be able to think like one.

My midday meal would be meat, barely cooked, or fish, frequently raw, and green vegetables from one of my greenhouses. After lunch, I’d saddle either Lucan or Rabbit and ride for an hour or two, out from the Water Palace to Manco Heath, where I allowed my mount a gallop. The pounding of the hooves cleared my brain and took my thoughts away from my troubles. At dusk, I’d swim for an hour, then have a simple dinner — bread, cheese, and pickled vegetables my general choice. I would go for a walk to digest, then to bed.

If I’d worked hard enough, sleep came. But all too often I’d toss and turn for hours. I’d never had trouble sleeping before, and in fact was proud that like any good cavalryman I could sleep anywhere, including the saddle. I was desperately lonely, but couldn’t bring myself to flee to Irrigon. Not yet.

Several weeks passed like this. I had visitors — Yonge twice, Kutulu once, then a stranger.

Erivan, my majordomo, came and said Baron Khwaja Sala awaited my pleasure. Most people think a majordomo holds his position because of his ability to run a great household without his employers being aware of his silent, efficient mechanisms; plus an appropriate cold arrogance toward the unwanted. But there’s a third, most important talent: knowledge of almost everything. If a guest wishes a certain exotic fruit from his homeland, the majordomo should know which marketplace might have the item. As a better example, he should have known who in the hells this strangely named baron was.

“He is the Maisirian ambassador to the court of the emperor.” I raised an eyebrow, not afraid of showing ignorance, or any other failing, to a man who probably knew my weaknesses better than I. “He refused to state his business, sir.”

“Please take him to the green study, see if he requires refreshment, and tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

That would make it easier for Kutulu’s still-unknown agent to spy on us, since I had no intent of meeting with any Maisirian without witnesses.

“I only know that he has the reputation of being one of King Bairan’s shrewdest counselors, and reputedly is his closest adviser.”

“I see,” I said, although I certainly didn’t, and thoughtfully made my way to the study.

Baron Sala was tall, almost as tall as I, in his sixties and very siender. He wore long mustaches and had the most sorrowful eyes, as if he’d seen every evil, every bit of duplicity the world could offer, and nothing could surprise him any longer. Once the amenities were finished, I asked why he’d come.

“I am representing not only my king, but our army’s high command,” he said. “One of the earliest posts you held was in the Kingdom of Kait when the Seer Tenedos was the Rule of Ten’s ambassador there, am I not correct?”

“My master and his officers need to know everything you remember about Kait. Those bandits raid south into Maisir as often as they trouble Numantia, and it’s King Bairan’s mind to put an end to their nonsense for good and all. That’s why he requested I visit you and inquire about your interest in bringing peace.”

“What form,” I asked, “would King Bairan like this advice in? I’m neither a historian nor a scribe, and for me to labor out an account of what happened, let alone the ‘everything’ he evidently wishes … well, we could both be quite aged before the work is complete.”

The baron smiled. “Such was my thought when the courier arrived with my lord’s wishes, and so I requested further elaboration. Ideally, he would be delighted if you could somehow attend a conference with our high command on the problem.”

“I doubt,” Sala said dryly, “if your emperor would be thrilled to have an enclave of our generals arrive here in Nicias.”

“Let’s begin with the easiest of problems,” I asked. “How would I get to Maisir? The commonest route lies through Kait, and since that murderous bastard Achim Baber Fergana still sits the throne in Sayana, and would be delighted to see me, preferably impaled on a stake, I doubt that’s a feasible route.”

“That, as you said, is the easiest of problems. There is a longer route that your army already knows of, that goes through Kallio and crosses into one of the other Border States. It’s desert, and there are bandits, but it’s passable for small units, if long abandoned. We could have a contingent of Negaret — those are the soldiers who patrol what we call the Wild Country — meet you at the border.”

“That’s one problem solved,” I said. “Now let’s address a bigger one. Do you think the emperor would allow one of his tribunes to travel abroad?”

“I don’t know. But, if I may speak frankly, I understand your star is a bit dimmed in the emperor’s eyes, so he might not object too strongly. I could make subtle inquiries, if you’re interested.”

There were advantages to the idea, not the least being I’d be out of this beautiful trap of a palace and away from the whispers and snickers accompanying any nobleman’s fall. It would also give me time to puzzle out just what was going wrong between Marán and myself and determine what I should do to change.

To take the field, to be away from all of these words and buildings, into the hard, clean wilderness and the company of men who said and lived what they believed … I smiled a bit wistfully. The baron looked politely inquiring.

“I was just thinking,” I said, “how I envy your officers and your prospective campaign. There is a grudge between myself and the Achim Fergana I’d like to resolve.”

“That is interesting,” the baron said. “King Bairan added a note that the ideal solution would be for you to join our campaign. We’d arrange proper recompense, both for you and the emperor, since he’d be deprived of your services for, oh, perhaps a year, perhaps longer, and of course you’d serve at your present level of authority, perhaps as a rauri, a commander of the advance guard.”

“That’s an idea I can’t even think of. In fact,” I said, “I’m probably coming very close to violating the spirit of my oath in discussing the matter at all.”

“My apologies,” the baron said, rising. “I’m very glad I took the time to meet you, Damastes. I expected little to come of this, and was a bit afraid you might be angered. I’m delighted you’re at the least interested. Should I request an audience with Emperor Tenedos?”

“I surely understand that,” Sala said. “I’ll wait until I hear further from you before taking any action. Feel free to discuss this with your wife and fellows. We don’t want anyone to think King Bairan is considering anything even vaguely unacceptable to your emperor.”

After Baron Sala left, I went into the green study’s spy chamber, to see, from simple curiosity, who Kutulu’s man — or woman — was. The chamber was empty, although I touched my hand to the wood around the spyhole, and found it warm, as if someone’s forehead had pressed against it.

I went to my library and made notes of exactly what had happened, word for word, while it was still fresh. Then I took out a fresh sheet of stationery:

To the emperor Laish Tenedos, and for his attention only. From his Most Loyal Servant, Tribune Damastes á Cimabue.

Sir, I greet you, and offer my deepest respects

I am reporting on a meeting that took place this day between the Maisirian ambassador, Baron Khwaja Sala, and myself …

Since I’m hardly a master of the written word, and wanted my report to the emperor to be precise, it was late when I sent my report off to the palace. I thought of eating, but wasn’t hungry, my mind a roiling mass of questions and wonderments. I drank a glass of warm milk, hoping it would make me sleepy, but it didn’t.

I listened to the wind roar across the treetops of the palace grounds, and watched the lashing branches, then decided I’d lie down, and perhaps the proximity of pillows, soft cotton sheets, and warm blankets would bring solace, though I knew I was deluding myself and rest would be a long time coming this night.

The man should have killed me the quickest way he could. I’d been taught the fine art of killing an enemy with any tool that presented itself. The teacher, a scarred infantry color-sergeant, said too many soldiers fall in love with a single weapon. It could be a particular sword, or even a style of weaponry, and truthfully I’ve known men who nearly panicked if they were told to use a spear instead of their favored saber, or a dagger instead of an ax.

The man used the wind’s blast to cover his springing the window catch of my bedroom. Barely opening the window, he slipped inside. If he’d had a sword, knife, or even a throwing-dart, and attacked the moment he found his footing, I should have died. Instead, he took the long yellow silk cord from around his neck, the cord the Tovieti stranglers loved, and crept toward the lump under the bedclothes.

He had had a second to realize the lump was nothing but hastily bundled pillows when I came from behind, hands clenched, smashing sideways across on the nape of his neck with all my strength. He contorted backward against me, and I smelt his bowels emptying as he died.

I spun out of the way, toward where my sword belt hung, and saved my life a second time, for I hadn’t seen the strangler’s backup come into the room. She was very good, slender blade burning across my ribs. She recovered and jump-lunged toward the naked man in front of her.

She was good, she was fast, perhaps faster than I, but she wasn’t a back-alley brawler, rather she was used to the refinements of the fighting school. She yelped as I kicked a chair into her, sending her stumbling. Then she heard the dry whisper as my sword came out of its sheath. I lunged, and she parried. We both recovered, circling, eyes and minds on nothing but our blades, which reflected the flickering light from windblown torches outside.

I heard, but didn’t let myself to respond, shouts, screams, crashing, coming from other places in the palace.

Circling, circling. Her blade darted, and I smashed it aside and struck, pinking her thigh above her knee. She grunted and flicked her sword’s point at my eyes, and I barely ducked back. She stamp-lunged forward, and I went low, under her thrust, and was nearly spitted for my bravado.

Again we parried, moving back, forth, looking for the opening. I heard her muttering, paid no mind. Her silhouette shimmered, and I realized magic was in the arena. She wavered, almost became invisible, and I snapped her concentration with a high cut toward her head. The spell broke, and I faced a solid, slender figure once more, moving, always moving.

She dropped her guard, but I was too wise, ignoring the feint and lunging under her blade, her guard, and I felt resistance as my sword slid into her chest, just under her rib cage. The woman said “Oh,” in a mildly shocked voice, and dropped her sword. It clattered on the floor. I freed my blade.

She touched a hand to her side, lifted it, and even in the dimness we could both see the blood staining her fingers. She said “Oh” once more, but this time as if she had finally understood something obvious, and there was no strength in her knees, her legs — they buckled. Before her body thudded to the floor, Saionji had taken her back to the Wheel.

Another window smashed, and two men, both wearing black, jumped into the room. They saw me, shouted, and ran forward. Both were armed with short stabbing spears. I brushed one spear aside with my blade, and shoulder-blocked that man into his mate. They stumbled backward, flailing, and I ran the first through.

A door crashed open behind me, and I thought I was doomed, but had no time for anything but the man with the spear. He died with my blade through an eye, and I pulled my sword out, spinning toward the new threat, but too late, too late …

Karjan was there, saber in hand, and flanking him were half a dozen others from my household, armed with everything from candlesticks to a seaman’s cutlass I’d never seen before. “Fucking Tovieti,” he shouted.

“Hells if I know,” he panted. “We must’ve killed four, five on th’ stairs comin’ up here, sir. Dunno how many others there are.”

“We’ll fall back on the armory,” I decided. There’d be proper weapons there, and the barred room would be easy to fight from. I grabbed the ring of keys from where it hung on my wall, and we went into the corridor. There were four bodies there, and at the stairs were Erivan and another servant. Shouts came from behind, and I realized there must be more attackers coming through my bedroom window. “Go on,” I ordered. “I’ll hold them here for a moment.”

Karjan started to object, and I shouted, “Go on, man! We’ve got to have a rally point!” He nodded, and he and the others clattered down the steps.

There was only Erivan and me. He was armed with an ancient sword pulled from one of the displays hanging along the hall. “Now we’ll see what they’re worth,” I said.

“We will,” he said, and I heard a strange note of glee, strange for a man who wasn’t supposed to have any of the bloodlust of a warrior. I glanced at the bedroom door, to see how many Tovieti we’d face, but saw no one. As I realized more magic had been spun, a yellow silk noose came about my throat, tightened, and I smelt Erivan’s clove-scented breath hot against my ear as he throttled me.

The best way to successfully strangle an alert man is to use a very thin garrote, perhaps a wire. This will either crush or cut through the windpipe, and the victim will fall unconscious and die quickly. But the Tovieti loved their sacramental cord, nearly as thick as my finger, and the way it killed slowly, letting the red grasp of death gradually close on its prey.

I was vigilant, trained, and strong. Erivan should have yanked the cord tight about my throat, then turned his back and pulled, cord over his shoulder as if he were trying to lift me, as a laborer shoulders a sack of grain.

My fist smashed back like a hammer into his groin. He wanted to scream, but his wind was gone, keening like the tempest outside. I turned, inside his guard, not wanting my sword, rage at his betrayal shaking me as a terrier shakes a rat, wanting his death with my claws, my fangs, and I drove my fists into his ribs, his guts.

He stumbled backward against the balustrade. He was a big man, almost as big as I am, but I felt no strain as I picked him up by the belt and hair and bent him back over the railing. His face was close to mine, eyes wide in terror, and then I snapped his spine like a twig, and let him drop away, down the stairs, pinwheeling lifelessly like a rag doll a child tosses away.

I had my sword in hand and went down the stairs, looking for Karjan. Now we’d arm ourselves and hunt the Tovieti as if we were hounds, hunt them to their death. I heard cries from outside, shouted orders, the clatter of running feet, and guessed the Tovieti knew their trap had snapped empty, and now it was their turn to die.

It was. It took only a few moments to pass out weapons and divide my men and not a few women, angry as any at the invasion of their home, into teams.

As we burst into the drive, a company of cavalry, hard, battle-scarred men of the emperor’s bodyguard, galloped to the palace, and their captain said the company was to obey any orders I gave.

Within the hour several companies of Kutulu’s uniformed wardens reported. The grounds were sealed and surrounded and they were at my command.

We went systematically from room to room, building to building. My orders were simple: Kill them all. Perhaps I should have ordered a few prisoners to be taken, but I was as enraged as any of my servants, the sanctity of my refuge despoiled. Besides, I somehow knew the two leaders of the attack had been the woman who almost killed me and the traitorous Erivan.

We found only four Tovieti — one woman, three men, cowering in nooks. They died, and their bodies were dragged into the central drive in front of the main house with the others who’d died, in the first attack. None of us felt the wind or the rain that lashed down.

The storm died as dawn came, a gray, sodden, sunless time. There were fourteen bodies on the cobbles, and another nineteen of my own people, whose corpses were handled gently, carefully, laid with honor on the great tables of the main hall. They’d died in my defense — and, ultimately, the defense of Numantia — as bravely as any soldier on any battlefield. Their bodies would be burned with the greatest ceremony and I’d make many sacrifices to Saionji, to the gods of Nicias, and to their own gods and godlets if they were known, hoping the Destroyer and the Creator goddess would give them great advancement in their next life.

I heard more horses and saw a second group of cavalry, again from the emperor’s bodyguard, ride through the palace gates. Behind them were four long black carriages with tiny window slits, no doubt intended to carry any Tovieti prisoners. They’d return to the dungeons empty.

At the front of the riders were Kutulu and someone I vaguely recognized as one of my servants, a woman I’d thought barely smart enough to handle her duties as a candle trimmer. Even in my grief and rage, I reminded myself yet again to never judge someone by his or her expression or behavior, and I knew Kutulu must’ve enjoyed giving her orders to play the dunce. Now she looked as she was in fact, a keen-eyed, sharp-witted police agent, and she half-smiled when I nodded to her. I wasn’t angry, felt no betrayal — Kutulu and the emperor spied on everyone. Besides, it had obviously been she who’d gone for help.

He dismounted carefully. “One of these days,” he said, “I shall find a way to never ride a horse again. Murderous beasts!” The horse nickered as if it had understood him. Kutulu went down the row of bodies, staring carefully at each face, memorizing it. Four times he nodded, recognizing, even in twisted death, whom he was looking at. He came back and drew me aside. “Fascinating,” he said. “Some of them I knew.”

“One was a criminal, a man who specialized in stealing jewels from the houses of the rich. I suppose he showed the others how to gain entry to your palace.

“But the others are — were more interesting. They were longtime apostates. They hated the Rule of Ten and have managed to transfer their treason to the emperor. All were from reputable, if dissident, families.

“You know, if they weren’t traitors, you might almost respect them for their dedication to a cause.”

“Fuck them,” I snarled. “I don’t respect anyone who tries to stab me in the back.”

Kutulu shrugged. “Would you have them put on a uniform and propose open battle? That would be foolish, and the Tovieti aren’t fools.”

“Now, Tribune Damastes á Cimabue,” Kutulu said, suddenly formal, “it is my duty to issue the following order, which has been approved by the emperor: You are directed to leave this palace as quickly as it’s possible to gather your belongings.”

I felt as if I’d been sandbagged. Nearly murdered, and now the emperor chooses to disgrace me still further by ordering me out of this palace I’d been given? It was his right, but hardly honorable. Again, hard rage grew within me.

A voice came: “That is my personal order, Tribune, and must quickly be obeyed.” I spun and saw, standing in the doorway of one of the carriages, the emperor, Laish Tenedos!

“Stand, Damastes, my friend,” he said, and now my surprise was greater than any of my servants'. “We gave this order,” the emperor went on, “because you are the best and most trusted of all my servants, and I can little afford to be without your services, especially in these troubled times.” So my disgrace was ended. “Come, Tribune,” he ordered. “Walk with me to the garden. We have matters to discuss.”

I obeyed, rather numbly. Tenedos waited until we were out of everyone’s earshot and had passed through a gate into one of my smaller glades, then said, calmly, “As I said, these are perilous times.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Indeed. First, as to this matter of the palace. Kutulu said he warned you about its indefensibility before, and I think the Tovieti proved it rather thoroughly. When we’ve taken care of them completely, you may, of course, return. I intend to wipe them out to the last man and woman, and then extirpate all record they ever existed. Their treacherous heresy must not be allowed to propagate itself, even in dusty tomes only scholars consult. But there’s a greater enemy to deal with first.”

“Of course. There have been some … unusual incidents on our borders. There’ve been reports of Maisirian patrols crossing through the Border States and spying on our outposts, and also that spies and saboteurs have been entering Urey and moving north toward Nicias. As yet, Kutulu hasn’t been able to arrest any of these Maisirian agents, but I’m sure he’ll be successful, and then we’ll find out exactly what King Bairan’s plans are.

“I was impressed by his attempts to hire you away. I read your report this morning, immediately after hearing the news of the attack. Needless to say, I knew you’d penetrate Baron Sala’s words and find the true meaning — that he wishes you, and your ability and popularity, out of the equation in the days to come.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Much as I’d like to deal with that damned Fergana, things didn’t feel right.”

Tenedos chuckled. “And it’s been exceedingly complicated lately, hasn’t it?” That was as much as he ever said in the way of apology for my and Marán’s humiliation.

“Now, on to the future. I was not speaking idly when I said I have a great task.”

“I’m not sure of the precise posting. But I want you to go somewhere safe … perhaps your wife’s estates. I doubt if any Tovieti has courage enough to intrude on the Agramónte lands.”

“Those other carriages contain papers, maps, and reports I want you to be familiar with. All of them deal with Maisir. Let no one else read them or even know of their existence. Study the documents well, for they’ll be the greatest weapon you’ll have in the days to come. For Maisir is a mighty enemy, the greatest Numantia has ever faced.”

The emperor looked somber. “I fear so. And if it happens, Saionji will be given blood sacrifices beyond even a goddess’s dreams.”

SEVEN

THE YELLOW SILK CORD