Demon King (21 page)

“Not only do the Maisirians worship more fervently than the most wild-eyed Numantian monk, but they also build great temples and have a vast host of manifestations unknown to us. Their magic, like their worship, is dark and death-worshiping, and I avoided their sorcerers as much as I could.”

Sorcery was considered one of the state’s main supports. Young men and women who showed signs of the talent were noted early and trained in secluded institutions. Then they’d chose, or have chosen for them — no one seemed to quite know — specific assignments. It sounded as if Maisir’s magicians were as organized as soldiers. The closest thing we had, really no more than a mutual protective society, was the Chare Brethren. The Maisirians’ master magician was a shadowy figure ironically known as the
azaz
, or master of ceremonies. Who he was, even his name, let alone his powers, was unknown.

As for the army itself, reports were quite contradictory. Their army was double the size of ours. However, this was a false cause for worry. Most units couldn’t be assigned to new locales, since they were required to keep the peace in their garrison areas or to defend the frontiers. There were legends Maisir had been conquered in the dim past by lands to the west and east, countries yet unknown to Numantia, and the Maisirians were deathly afraid of further invasions.

The cavalry and guard regiments were elite and officered by noblemen, but these were in the minority and generally used as parade formations in the cities. The infantry was considered to be poorly led, and their badly and brutally treated soldiery thought not much more than rabble. Their officers were poorly educated, capable of little better strategy than attacking frontally, in mass. In battle the Maisirians might fight bravely, or as easily flee or surrender.

I puzzled over that one.

Their battle magic was another cipher. Maisir hadn’t fought a major war in decades, so most information was legendary. But these stories were of the most awful sort, and suggested their mages could call up dark forces at least as powerful as those the Emperor Tenedos could summon.

There was one large difference between Maisir and Numantia. We recruited our soldiers with cash, with promises of gold, loot, glory. The Maisirians used the age system. Each man owed his king ten full years of service, and might or might not be called to the colors, along with everyone else his age, depending on the king’s needs. Sometimes he served a full term, sometimes he was hastily trained and released from service. This wasn’t dealt with very thoroughly, since analysts felt it was an impossible system, given the enormity of the country, the slow communication, the weather, the probability of corruption and evading such an onerous duty, and so forth. Again I wondered.

I read on, about the country’s cities, built of stone and wood, wildly colored; their spicy food; their wild music; even a bit of their poetry and tales.

I wanted to go there, to learn more about this fascinating land — but not as a warrior, for as I read I felt a crawl in my guts. Maisir could be the final doom of Numantia.

• • •

Another reason I fled to my books and reports was Marán. Something was dreadfully wrong. Wrong with me, wrong with her, wrong with our marriage — I didn’t know. I didn’t even know how to ask the questions, or how to ask them the right way. I asked her several times if she was happy, if everything was all right. She said she was as happy as she could be expected to be.

We slept in the same bed, and we still loved, our bodies twining frantically as if they as well were in search of something lost.

I noticed the way she looked at me, particularly when she didn’t think I was paying attention. There was no softness, no gentleness, but rather a cold intensity, as if she were studying someone she’d only just met and was deciding if that person was a friend or enemy.

I felt there was a sheet of glass between me and the woman I loved. I looked desperately for an answer, but found none.

• • •

The winter was waning, and the last time of the year, the time of Dews, was almost upon us when the riders trotted up to Irrigon. There were ten of them, remounts tied to each rider’s saddle, wearing the dark earth-brown and subdued green caps and cloaks of Yonge’s skirmishers. Their officer, a young man whose dark complexion and hawk face suggested he might have been born somewhere not distant from the Border Lands, saluted, introduced himself as Captain Sendraka, and handed me a trebly sealed envelope. I invited him and his men inside, and he shook his head.

“No, Tribune. We’re under orders. And I was told to have you open that packet immediately.”

It could only have come from one man. I tore the envelope open, and the drizzle misted the single sheet inside. It was handwritten:

As I read it, the paper curled and smoked, and I dropped it into the mud as it flamed into nothingness.

“We dropped off relays of horses as we came, sir. For the return. You’ll be ready — ”

“We’ll be ready in an hour,” Marán’s voice interrupted. “For Nicias?”

“Yes, lady, I mean Baroness, but there was no mention …”

“Is there any reason for a tribune’s wife not to attend her husband?”

Captain Sendraka wilted at the stare I knew he was getting. “No, Baroness. At least … but we’ll be riding hard. And, well, I don’t know if a woman …” His voice trailed off.

I almost laughed. The good captain was about to have his opinion of women’s stamina changed. I turned. Marán’s eyes held mine. For an instant, they had that cold, assessing look I hated, then they softened.

“May I come with you, Damastes? Please?”

“Of course.”

Thirty minutes later, we rode out of Irrigon on the emperor’s command.

Captain Sendraka had said we’d ride hard for the capital, and he wasn’t exaggerating. I thought I was in decent physical shape, but relearned the lesson that nothing prepares you for hard living except hard living. My ass was sore within half a day, and got sorer.

At the first stop, an inn just at the edge of Agramónte property, one man was left behind, and Marán took his waiting remount.

The skirmishers noted Marán with admiration. She never complained, and when anyone looked at her, no matter how mud-spattered, how weary she was, she forced a smile.

We moved in the regulation forced march pattern: trot for an hour, walk your horse for an hour, walk beside your mount for half an hour, rest for half an hour, then trot once more. Since we were not in hostile territory, we started an hour before dawn, and ended an hour after sunset, more or less. More or less because, in consideration of my rank, each day’s journey ended at an inn, where fresh horses waited. The inns were all outside of a town, and quiet. Since the emperor didn’t want to advertise my coming, we ate in our chambers or in a snug, if the inn had one. At our first stop I saw broadsheets that screamed the reason for the emperor’s summons:

I scanned the broadsheets for details. There wasn’t much more than what the headlines yammered. One sheet at least told me where the tragedy had occurred: “not far” from the city of Zante. It took some moments for me to remember where Zante was. I’d expected the catastrophe to have taken place in Kait, or the Urshi Highlands, where fighting was common. Zante was leagues to the east of Kait, just across the border from the mostly desert Numantian province of Dumyat. What were our soldiers doing there?

Another question I had was how was it known, if there were no survivors, the killers were Maisirian? All the Border Lands had adequate supplies of homegrown bandits. I guessed imperial sorcery must have given that answer.

Another question came to me: A normally sized troop (not company, as the always inaccurate broadsheets would term it) of cavalry was around a hundred men. This unit must have been specially augmented. I sought in vain to see what unit had been involved in the action. Naturally, the broadsheets either thought this didn’t matter, or their scribes had been too lazy or ignorant to ask the proper questions.

If the facts were slight, the stories running around the inn’s taproom beyond our snug weren’t: Of course the Maisirians had done it … probably tortured any wounded … Someone had it on good authority that the most evil magic had been used to spring the trap … just like Maisirians, treacherous sons of bitches that they were … The emperor ought not to screw around with diplomatic notes but send the army across the border — ten, nay a hundred, for every one of our brave lads … Cheers and set up another round … Probably the same conversation, or more correctly mindless raging, was going on in every inn of Numantia.

I asked Captain Sendraka what he knew of the disaster, and he said very little — his regiment had been alerted after the disaster and he’d been immediately sent to Irrigon.

Marán wondered why I hadn’t been summoned by heliograph, and Sendraka replied that the weather had been too chancy around Nicias to depend on those devices.

“What happens next?” she asked.

“I couldn’t say … but all the first-line regiments were on stand to when I left Nicias,” Sendraka said.

“Will it be war?”

Sendraka shook his head. I didn’t know, either, but feared the worst, and reading my face, Marán knew my thoughts. Then I understood, perhaps, why she’d wanted to come with me. If I was to go to war again, she wanted our love rebuilt, until it flamed as high as it once had, and I loved her for that.

We rode on, and each night heard more anger, more rage, from the people around us. As we drew closer to the capital, we passed army posts. They were at full readiness, gates guarded by squads instead of single sentries, parade grounds alive with drilling men.

We rode into Nicias after nightfall. The streets, as always in the City of Lights, were alive, but there were so many uniformed groups galloping about we went unnoticed.

We went directly to a rear entrance to the Imperial Palace and were met by Emperor Tenedos’s aide, once-Captain, now-Domina Amer Othman. I thanked Captain Sendraka and let Othman lead us through secluded passageways to private apartments.

A lavish meal was already laid out, and beside it was a note from the emperor:

As if we had any choice. Marán had gone to the closets, muttering what she’d do about clothes. She opened one and gasped. On the racks hung two dozen of her favorite garments. In cupboards were undergarments and everything else she’d need to appear at court.

Another closet and cabinet held clothes for me: all dress uniforms. I would not be presenting myself as Baron Agramónte.

“How did he know what to pick out?” she wondered, holding up the sleeve of one dress.

“He’s a magician.”

“But he’s also a man,” she protested. “Men
never
know things like that.”

“Maybe emperor-type men do?”

She just shook her head and went into the bath chamber. I heard the sound of splashing. I lifted dish covers until I found something finger-sized and, munching a small, spiced, meat-filled pastry, wandered around the apartments. All was gold, silver, cut gems, or the richest, hand-rubbed woods. I could have quartered a company of infantry in these rooms, and wondered just how long we’d be kept in seclusion. There were several bookcases, and I examined their contents. Unsurprisingly, all of the volumes dealt with Maisir. There was no doubt whatsoever why the emperor had summoned me.

• • •

We spent four days in these apartments, seeing no one except smiling, faceless servants. We ate, slept, and grew increasingly nervous. Early on the morning of the fifth day Domina Othman requested we be ready for an imperial audience after the noon meal, and for me to wear my medals. At least an hour before they came for us, we were ready. They escorted us to the main entrance of the palace, as if we were just arriving.

Trumpets blared, flunkies clamored our names and ranks, and we entered the great hall, which was packed with the nobility of Numantia. The entrance was on a higher level than the main room, a huge circular chamber on several levels with the throne at the far end. We started down the sweeping staircase. The crowd surged toward us, smiles spread as carefully as facial powder and rouge. Obviously Marán and I were once more in imperial favor. A lackey bellowed an imperial “request” — that our “friends” hold their welcomes until later, for imperial business of the greatest import was about to begin.

The court yammer stilled for an instant, then grew louder and louder as the court speculated on what could be happening. I noted the Maisirian ambassador, Baron Sala, in the throng, waiting with an utterly impenetrable expression.

I saw the emperor’s sisters, Dalny and Leh, one with a handsome, foppish army officer barely out of his teens, the other with a bearded dandy who’d come to the end of four marriages now, each time having improved either his title or wealth. Both women wore black, but their gowns were revealingly cut and suggested the sisters were no more in real mourning for their brother Reufern than if they’d been naked with kohl rubbed on their nipples.

What the broadsheets had termed the “Maisirian Emergency” appeared to have made no impression at all on these fools. I remembered how I’d despised the wastrels who’d buzzed around the Rule of Ten, and realized they now thought the emperor was an even bigger jar of honey. Was this why we’d undertaken treason and overthrown that pack of imbeciles?

Marán leaned close. “If we were brought to Nicias in such secrecy, why this?” she whispered.