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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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“Gilly!”
The shout pulled Gilliad
al zefa’ Mimdallek from the mental calculations that occupied her mind as she walked. In a bemused way, she noticed she’d passed the tea seller’s. She really must pay more attention when she walked.
Then the matter of hearing her name came back to her. She paused, certain she’d imagined it, as the throngs of Nen dra Kove swarmed past her. Then, louder, this time desperate: “Gilliad!”
She turned. One of her cousins, Mossuran al zef Mimdallek, pushed through the crowded street after her, heedless of whom he elbowed aside. She blinked in surprise; that was not like this particular cousin. Neither was the frown that darkened his chubby face.
He wasn’t supposed to be in Nen dra Kove; his place was as House Third in the capital city of Zarkorum. Judging by his evident exhaustion and dust-streaked clothes, Mossuran must have ridden almost nonstop from there. Something was very wrong.
Her former pleasant distraction evaporated. Gilliad fought her way against the river of bodies that flowed in the opposite direction. “Mossuran—what is it?” she called.
When he caught up to her he said nothing, just grabbed her elbow and angled her off to the side. She saw he was making for a
tekeral,
one of the tiny pockets of parkland that dotted Nen dra Kove, an oasis of green in the overwhelming heat.
This one was empty save for two old men sitting on a bench beneath a huge jasmine bush. A battered game board lay between them. They didn’t even look up from their game of goats and jackals as Gilliad and Mossuran cast fleeting shadows across it.
Mossuran led her to another bench, this one under a stately date palm. He collapsed rather than sat, breathing heavily. His dark skin was a sickly shade of grey. “That damned madman’s back,” he said without preamble. “He’s in Zarkorum.”
It took Gilliad the space of a few heartbeats to understand him.
“What!” She felt sick. What in the ninety hells of Udasah was that Kelnethi
madman doing back in Assantik? In Zarkorum especially? Had he come to tell House Mhakkan that she traded with Jehanglan in defiance of the Dawn Emperor’s grant?
If he did, then that was the end of House Mimdallek. That was not a thing she would allow, even if she spent the rest of eternity beneath Danashkar’s poisoned claws.
In her fright she must have spoken the last aloud, for Mossuran shook his head.
“I don’t think you have to worry about Danashkar any more, Gilliad—if indeed you ever did. I saw Taren Olmeins myself, and he looked as sane as any man that ever I saw.”
“You think then—” She couldn’t finish.
He met her eyes, and nodded. “He was shamming before. He knew, cousin; he knew what strings to tug, just as if we were shadow puppets and he the puppet master. I don’t know how he managed the frothy spittle and the bloodshot eyes, but I’m now certain that they were faked. The man is no more mad than you or I.” Mossuran drew a deep breath. He turned pleading eyes upon her; his voice quavered as he asked, “So now what do we do?”
She wished for a partner with a little more steel in his backbone than Mossuran, but he was all she had. She explained with a patience that barely hid her own fear, “If he’s here to inform on us, we’ll have to send the next shipment out as quickly as possible. That will do two things: get rid of the evidence, and get Afrani and his crew out of the reach of the emperor’s torturers. Get word to them; tell them to sail north to Thalnia after they’ve delivered this shipment and bide there for a while.”
She was not afraid of the emperor’s torturers for herself or Mossuran; their rank within House Mimdallek would protect them against one outlander’s word if there was no evidence to be found. But the sailors and farmers were another tale … . She did not betray her quietly mounting fear; that would only panic Mossuran. Best to pretend she’d prepared for such a contingency.
“But the hold isn’t full yet,” Mossuran objected. “And there are more on the way; we weren’t supposed to send the ship out for another tenday.” His voice was steadier; as she’d known he would, Mossuran took strength from her calmness.
Gilliad sighed, playing her part to the utmost. “Mossuran, it’s not as if there will never be more silkworms and mulberry trees. The Tah’nehsieh will understand. I will ride to intercept whatever is on its way from the farms to the secret cove. I will burn it myself if necessary, and tell the farmers to hide in the hill country. If we play this round well, this is merely a setback; we can still destroy House Mhakkan’s stranglehold on Jehanglan.”
Mossuran nodded. “Very well, then. But what about Taren Olmeins?”
That surprised her. “You have to ask?” she demanded. “He dies.”
Her cousin threw his hands into the air. “That’s just it, Gilly; there’s no way to get to him! I saw him come off a Thalnian ship—one of House Erdon’s—myself. He was with a group of people. Three Yerrin men, two young, one much older; a small woman or girl, I couldn’t tell which from that distance; an Assantikkan man; and another woman who looked like an Erdon—tall, black hair, with that heart-shaped face so many of them have.
“They were met at the dock by a group of men and spirited away. I recognized one of the men in that group, even out of uniform; it was Barduun al zef Kisharrek—a captain in Chakkarin’s personal guard!”
Gilliad swayed. Taren Olmeins under the Dawn Emperor’s protection? House Mimdallek was doomed indeed! She caught herself, knew she’d come close to fainting, dug her fingernails into her legs to ward such weakness off.
So much for the Tah’nehsieh shaman’s assurances,
she thought,
that no ill would befall my House from this. What would Zhantse predict now? The same?
Bitterness filled her, tasting like bile on her tongue.
She stared at the designs painted in henna on the backs of her hands, not really seeing them. One moment they were blurs before her eyes; the next they snapped back into focus. If the worst was come upon House Mimdallek, revenge was all she had.
And she could not have it. But she would do all she could to save her House. She got to her feet.
“Come. There’s much to do, and not much time to do it, cousin.”
 
The Phoenix Lord hunted this day.
Xiane Ma Jhi drew the bow back and sighted. An instant later the string slid off the thumb ring he wore and flew toward its target. He reined in his horse.
The arrow took the buck just behind the left foreleg. It sprang into the air and cried out, then crumpled to the ground.
The other hunters pulled up around him and whooped in congratulations; Xiane smiled at the honest praise. If only he could spend all his time riding through the pine forests like this! There were no lies in the hunt.
“Well done, Majesty!” Yesuin called. He rode up, wineskin in hand, and held it out with a grin. “As sweet a shot as I’ve ever seen.”
The others, from grizzled general to the tracker’s apprentice, all nodded. Their murmurs echoed Yesuin’s words. “Well done, indeed!” “Damn nice shot!” “A prize buck!” “Good shooting!”
Xiane took the skin and let cherry wine slide down his throat in a long, bloodred stream. He wiped his chin and handed the wineskin back. “Thanks to you, cousin,” he said. “That trick you showed me worked. For once, the string slid off the thumb ring smoothly. The arrow didn’t jerk up when it left the bow as it usually does.”
Old General V’Choun pulled his long white mustache. “Best get it bled,” he said. He motioned to the tracker and his young apprentice.
They bowed and trotted across the clearing, leaping fallen tree trunks. Xiane set his horse to amble after them; the others followed.
Suddenly, when the two servants were only a few
vri
from the fallen buck, the man’s head jerked to the left. For a long moment he stared into the thick woods there. Then he screamed in terror, grabbed his apprentice, and ran back. Xiane stopped in astonishment.
“Phoenix help us! Majesty, get back!” the tracker shouted.
Surprise dulled Xiane’s wits. “Wha—” he began.
Then he saw it.
A huge green serpent glided from the thick underbrush and flowed across the ground to the buck. Nearly twenty vri long, its body was as thick as a man’s waist; Xiane had never heard of a snake so large. Once, twice, three times it circled the dead animal. The buck glowed with a golden light; the light flared, hurting Xiane’s eyes, and died. Then the snake slid over the carcass and, coiling, settled itself as if on a throne. It stared at the men. A forked tongue flicked from between its scaled jaws, and blood dripped onto the buck.
An arrow whizzed past. In the instant it flew by him, Xiane recognized the colors of the fletching. Trust V’Choun to keep his head; the doughty old army veteran had faced worse, Xiane thought wildly, remembering the general’s dead wife.
The arrow struck full into the scaled throat—and went straight through the serpent. The snake stretched up and up, and opened its jaws, revealing fangs dripping venom, as if it would swallow the entire hunting party, horses and all.
 
While the man she named “the Demon” splashed and sang in the bathing room, well-pleased with his past night’s work, Nama dragged herself from the bed and pulled on a robe. Then she went to the desk and sat. As quietly as she could, she opened a drawer and slid a sheet of rice paper from under the sandalwood matting that covered the bottom.
Nama counted the days since the last moon, then counted them again, and yet again. Numb, she set aside the paper upon which she’d marked the days and the phases of the moon.
No, she had made no mistake. It was true. Bile rose in her throat, and she buried her face in her hands.
“What is that?” Zuia demanded from behind her.
Nama jumped. She had not heard the maid enter the sleeping chamber. She snatched at the paper and tried to thrust it back into the drawer.
Rough hands pulled it from her grasp. Nama bit her lip while Zuia studied the sheet. At last the maid laughed softly.
“Your courses are late, aren’t they?” Zuia asked.
“Yes,” Nama whispered.
“So you are with child at last?”
“Yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. The thought of bearing her rapist’s child made her sick at heart.
A hand slapped her face with enough force to snap her head back. She cried out. The tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Fool!” Zuia spat at her. She thrust the sheet in Nama’s face. “You should have told me the moment you suspected. Now Lord Jhanun will have to rush his plans.”
Nama cradled her stinging cheek in her hand as Zuia hurried out of the sleeping chamber. She heard the maid leave the house, no doubt to apprise her master of the long-awaited event. Nama slumped in the chair.
If only she could cut her wrists or throat. But Zuia had banished anything sharp from the little house after Nama’s first attempt to end her torment. She’d botched it; she’d thought all she had to do was slash the blade lightly across her wrists. Now she knew she must go deeper, much deeper, to where the bright red blood of her heart flowed.
That same day all cords and sashes disappeared from the house lest she hang herself. Nama considered tearing the silken sheets into strips and plaiting a rope. But she would never finish before Zuia returned. Besides, what could she cut the silk with? She wasn’t strong enough to rip it. And to touch the sheets that stank of the Demon’s sweat from, from …
She doubled over and vomited again and again. When she was done, she wiped her mouth and sat up once more.
If only I had a friend to help me end my shame, a friend to bring me a knife, a rope, some poison … .
The sound of footsteps—many footsteps—and voices came to her ears. She recognized Zuia’s voice, and her uncle’s, among them.
They came, as she expected, into the sleeping chamber. Behind came the two men who had brought the Demon into her life. One bore a sword strapped to his back.
At a gesture from Jhanun, the men continued on to the bathing room. The song ended in a frightened squawk. There came the sounds of a struggle and the Demon cursing the men.
Nama listened as the cursing ended in mid-tirade and the sounds of fighting stopped. As the men dragged the Demon, now bound and gagged, from the bathing room, she was too numb to feel much satisfaction at the terror in his bulging eyes as he struggled helplessly in the powerful hands that gripped his arms.
Now he knew what she had felt all this time. It hardly mattered anymore. Somehow she knew that her torment was not ended, not yet. It would only change form as a silk moth changed from caterpillar to moth.
Her uncle caught her chin in his hand. “Now,” he said, “you are ready to become Xiane’s concubine.”
 
The giant serpent swayed and hissed. Its cold gaze fixed on the men as if it would hypnotize them as lesser snakes were said to hypnotize small birds.

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