Hammer Of God (17 page)

Alasdair looked at her again, and this time she saw what her silence had done to him.

“I'm sorry!” she said, then pressed her fingers to her lips. Waited until she could speak without weeping. “I've never been a wife before! I've never worn a crown! I'm doing my best, Alasdair.”

“And so am I,” he said, his voice almost too low for hearing. “But you must see that sometimes your best leaves a little to be desired.”

“So I'm to tell you everything?” she retorted. “I'm not to make any choice, any decision, without first consulting you? How then does that make me the queen? Alasdair, what king in the history of Ethrea, what – what duke ever in the duchy of Linfoi first consulted his wife in the ruling of his lands? What man would ever dream of doing so? And if he did, and others learned of it, what respect would they have for him? How many times must we have this wretched argument?”

“Not once more,” said Alasdair, and stood. “Not this argument, or any other. You're my sovereign queen and I've sworn you my fealty. My duty's clear, and a Linfoi holds to his word.”

She looked up at him. “What did you think, Alasdair, when you married me? How did you think it would be, when I was queen? Or did you think you'd never have to face this, since I most likely wouldn't prevail? Did you think I'd most likely become your duchess in Linfoi, and then you'd be the one to decide what I knew?”

Alasdair ran his hand over his face, then stared through a chamber window. “Rhian…I tell you truly…I don't know what I was thinking.”

If she reached out she could touch him, yet he was so far away. “I see.”

“I should go,” he said, his voice rough. “There's much to do before tomorrow.”

“Yes. Go. I'll see you at dinner.”

She sat in quiet despair after he left, feeling her cuts and bruises pain her. Then, when she couldn't stand the silence any longer, she went to Zandakar in his plush prison. They hadn't spoken since she'd fought the dukes…and she needed to see him.

He stood slowly as disapproving Sergeant Rigert closed the chamber door behind her, leaving them alone. His expression was grave. “You danced the hotas well, Rhian.”

She shrugged. “I didn't die.”

“Wei.” He closed the distance between them, and traced his fingertip down the line of stitches in her cheek. “Ursa says scar?”

“Most likely.”

“Good,” he said, and lightly slapped the side of her head. “I watch. You stupid, you wei kill that duke quickly.”

From him she'd accept the criticism. He was her teacher. “Yatzhay.”

“Second kill good. Quick. Clean.” His fist punched against his chest, above his heart. “You in hota, zho?”

And of course, he understood. She nodded. “Zho.”

“Zho,” he said again, and this time he smiled.

She mustn't stay here. There was the meeting with the ambassadors to think about, matters of state she needed to address. Letters of patent to draft, that would officially dissolve House Doveninger; Ven'Cedwin would be waiting And Zandakar—

Zandakar understands too much.

“I have to go,” she said, stepping back. “Thank you, Zandakar. The things you taught me saved my life.”

He nodded, still smiling. “Zho. When do we dance hotas again?”

Oh, God help her. “I don't know. I'm wounded.”

“But when you heal, Rhian, then we dance. Zho?”

“Yes. Perhaps. Zandakar—” She took a deep breath. “Tomorrow I meet with the ambassadors, to tell them of Mijak and the danger it poses. I'll need you there to speak for me. To tell the trading nations about your people. Your mother. Your brother. How dangerous they are. Will you do that? Will you speak for me, against Mijak?”

A shadow of puzzlement crept into his eyes. “Rhian?”

“Will you?”

He nodded again. “Zho.”

“Good,” she said, and left him alone.

The castle's Grand Ballroom was crowded with memories. Alone, for the moment, Rhian stood at its centre and gave those memories free rein. Closed her eyes and swayed, just a little, hearing the echoes of sweet music long past.

Eberg had held all his official functions in the ballroom, and from the age of twelve she had been his royal hostess at the balls, the receptions, the wooings and soothings of the contentious trading nations. She'd long ago lost count of the times she'd danced across the polished parquetry floor, beneath the frescoed ceiling's ornate chandeliers, watching herself in the full-length mirrors on the walls as she glided about the chamber in the arms of the men important enough to have been invited. The sons of ambassadors, the brothers of dukes and minor nobles and foreign princes, or the princes themselves.

From the age of twelve she'd known they thought, in their secret hearts, that if only they danced well enough they might win her in marriage and so bind Ethrea close to their cause. And because she was her father's daughter she smiled and laughed and wore her jewels and silk brocades, knowing she was beautiful and they wanted her, and never once let them see the thoughts behind her eyes.

No matter the occasion, no matter the honoured guests, she and her father had danced first, and alone. The night's guests clustered at the ballroom's edges and applauded, politely, the king and his only daughter sweeping through the music. She'd had the best of dancing masters and never once trod on his feet.

“Remember, Rhian,” Papa said to her every time, serenely smiling as the world avidly watched. “Their flattery serves their own purposes, never ours. Ethrea must be forever independent. The world is a house of cards, my child. One breath too strong, or too uncautious, and see what a tumbling will come about.”

“Yes, Papa,” she'd always replied. “I know. I won't disappoint you.”

And even though they were dancing, even though they whirled and swirled in front of all those avid eyes, he'd always kissed her forehead then. Dear God, she'd been so loved. She could feel his lips on her skin even now.

Oh, Papa. We can't be independent today. I must ask for help or see Ethrea destroyed.

She sighed, and opened her eyes. The minstrel gallery was empty of musicians. The chandeliers remained unlit. Wrought-iron candle stands, laden with fat white candles, had been brought in to dispel the gloom. With her eyes closed she heard more than music, she heard laughter and revelry. Happier times. With her eyes closed she saw Ranald dancing with a string of beauties, Simon with the beauties' younger sisters. Saw her father, the king, charming and disarming and deflecting all manner of awkward questions.

She'd danced with Alasdair in this room.

Now I dance with the future. I dance with tens and tens of thousands of lives. I dance with death.

She'd never felt so…inadequate.

Dinsy had helped her dress for her meeting with the ambassadors. She wore black silk brocade shot through with restrained gold thread, and her mother's dragon-eye rubies, her talisman. The gown closed tight around her throat, around her wrists, and touched the floor when she stood. She was crowned with the circlet she'd worn to kill the dukes.

“Oh, Majesty,” Dinsy had whispered. “You do look fierce.”

She'd stared in her dressing room mirror and couldn't disagree. The face staring back at her was still pale, still hollow-cheeked. Still beautiful, despite Ursa's neat row of stitches. But her eyes were different. They reflected her soul, and her soul had been changed.

“That gown's loose on you now,” Dinsy had added, and tsked her disapproval. “You're too thin, Majesty. You should eat more. Or do less.”

That was true too. The dress had been fashioned for the boys' funeral. She'd worn it to bury her father after them. It had seemed the best choice for her meeting with the ambassadors, given her part in Damwin and Kyrin's deaths. It made the proper comment without her having to say a word. But it was definitely loose. Dancing the hotas had changed her body as well as her soul. She was muscled like a whippet, lean and whipcord strong. There'd been no time for a seamstress's alterations. And since her wounded back and arm were still painful, she didn't mind.

Her mother's rubies gleamed like blood against the black. Blood was part of her life now. Perhaps she should make sure to wear a ruby always, so she'd never forget it.

A dais had been erected at the far end of the ballroom and her father's public throne placed upon it. Her throne now. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she approached it. Stepped onto the dais. Sat down, spine as straight as a pine tree. Let her hands rest on the throne's arms and resisted the urge to hold on tight.

I am here. I can do this. I must do this. Papa, help me.

Truth be told, the ballroom was too large for such an intimate gathering, but she'd wanted a feeling of space around her. Wanted its opulence to remind the ambassadors that Ethrea wasn't a pauper kingdom. Wanted them feeling a little…awed.

Marlan was my first great test. Damwin and Kyrin my second. Now here is my third…

The ballroom's doors opened a handspan, and Edward peered in. “Majesty? It's almost noon. The ambassadors will arrive shortly.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Edward withdrew. A moment later the ballroom's doors were flung wide open by liveried heralds and her privy council entered. She watched their approach in the great wall mirrors, their finely-dressed figures dipping in and out of reflection. Even Helfred had changed his plain blue wool habit for something more splendid: the candlelight gleamed on dark red silk. Alasdair, magnificently sombre in black velvet, led the way.

He touched her shoulder with his fingertips as he took his place on the dais, Ludo beside him. She kept her face schooled but let her eyes smile. Despite their differences and misunderstandings, she knew she could count on him…and he on her.

A small desk had been set to one side of the dais, so Ven'Cedwin might record the proceedings. He took his place, piled about with sheets of blank parchment, and picked up a small knife to sharpen his quill.

Beyond the open doors, a stirring and murmur of voices. One of the heralds on duty turned to her and nodded. The ambassadors were arrived.

She glanced at her privy council. “Gentlemen. We're ready?”

“We're ready, Your Majesty,” said Alasdair, scrupulously correct.

So she raised a hand to the herald and he bade the ambassadors proceed.

First to enter the ballroom was Emperor Han. His ambassador, Lai, came three paces behind him. Behind them trailed the ambassadors of the other trading nations, their expressions pruned with displeasure that the Tzhung emperor was in their midst.

They'd come in all their finery. Yes, Istahas of Slynt was still half-naked, but his deerhide leggings were new and his torso was oiled so it gleamed in the candlelight. The others were fully clothed, silk and velvet and leather and much jewellery. An-chata of Keldrave had lost two of his pendulous wife-rings; whether the women were dead or abandoned Rhian didn't know.

Behind them, the heralds closed the ballroom doors. Rhian willed her heart to beat a little slower, and favoured her visitors with an impersonal smile as all but Han and Lai straggled to a halt and stared about them, suspicious of even those men they called friends. The Tzhung did not straggle; they stood apart, self-contained and unperturbed.

“Gentlemen. You have our thanks for attending this meeting.”

Before anyone else replied, Halash of Dev'Karesh stepped forward and nodded in something approaching respectful recognition. His jaw worked rhythmically as he chewed the cloves he carried in a little leather purse dangling from his plaited leather belt. He was feet away from her and still she could smell him. She watched as the other ambassadors gave him ground, their nostrils flaring at his pungency.

“And you'll have ours, lady, when you say why you send for us.”

Rhian let her eyebrows rise. “The correct form of address is ‘Your Majesty’.”

The Dev'karesh were a pale race. Halash's white skin burned red at her reproof. “Of course. Your Majesty.”

Instead of bowing, as was customary, Arbenia's representative jabbed a pointed finger at Han. Though the weather was warm, still Gutten swathed himself in bearskin, the badge of his ruler's House. “It proves troublesome to me that Tzhung-tzhungchai's emperor stands here when my count languishes in Arbenia.”

The calculated disrespect, somehow more grating than Halash's brusque manner, sent a ripple of tension through her privy councillors. She raised a hand, settling them. “Ambassador Gutten, your master is always welcome in Kingseat. Every great man and woman of the world is welcome to Ethrea.”

Gutten bowed, almost insolent. “But only Emperor Han is here now. He is invited? Or he comes on a whim?”

“Emperor Han is not the topic of this meeting, sir,” she said coldly.

“Then what is?” said Voolksyn of Harbisland, third of the three great trading nations. Like so many of his race he was a giant of a man, made even more impressive by his clean-shaven head, his undisciplined reddish-gold beard, his ring-choked fingers and his spotted sealskin doublet.

Beneath her black brocade finery, Rhian felt her heart beat hard again. Every one of these ambassadors, and of course Han, was old enough to be her father. Two days ago they'd watched her kill to keep the crown upon her head. Would the memory be enough to keep them here now?

Please, God, please. Let it be enough.

She looked at Voolksyn. “Nothing less than life and death.”

Everyone but Han and Lai stirred and muttered at her words. Ignoring them, she let her gaze rest upon Ambassador Athnïj of Icthia. “Sir,” she said, “am I misinformed, or is your tenure as the Icthian ambassador come to an end?”

Athnïj, a thin, nervy man, stepped to the foot of the dais and bowed extravagantly. Large patches of sweat marred his rust-red velvet overtunic. “Your Majesty, you are not misinformed.”

She drummed her fingers on the arm of her throne. “And yet you're still here, Athnïj, long after the time Icthia's new ambassador should have reached us. What has happened to the new Icthian ambassador? Are you aware?”

Athnïj shook his head, his eyes skittish. His throat worked hard as he swallowed. “Alas.”

Gutten of Arbenia was scowling. “Are you, Queen of Ethrea?”

Rhian sat back and considered him. “If I said I was, Ambassador Gutten. If I said I knew things that would freeze the blood in your veins…would you believe me? Or would you dismiss me, as Marlan and Damwin and Kyrin dismissed me, because I am young and female?”

A hurried exchange of glances between the ambassadors, then, and a smattering of whispered comment. Gutten spoke to Voolksyn, his back half-turned to the throne. Voolksyn listened, his face betraying nothing. Leelin of Haisun, a nation cousined to Tzhung-tzhungchai, tried to catch Ambassador Lai's attention, but Han's man stared at the parquetry floor. Istahas tugged at his scalp-lock and said something swift and guttural in An-chata's ready ear. The Keldravian snorted, puffy eyes narrowed, and slid his hands into his wide sleeves as tiny Lalaska of Barbruish shook his oiled ringlets and stroked his green silk stole. Istahas and Halash exchanged soft comments too. Athnïj pressed his knuckles to his lips and said nothing.

Emperor Han, still standing apart, was almost smiling, as though he found this entire gathering some kind of prank or waste of time. His gaze touched Rhian's face once, then slid aside. She felt her fingers tighten.

She'd half-expected him to walk out of thin air again last night, to bewilder her with more cryptic utterances. When he didn't appear she was relieved…but somehow disappointed.

And does that mean I'm a fool?

“My lords!” she said, raising her voice above their mutterings.

One by one they looked at her, seemingly startled all over again that they must dance attendance upon a woman.

“Gentlemen,” she continued, “I understand your dismay. We smile and we smile, we have treaties and a charter, yet none of us here believes we're all bosom friends. There are difficulties between some of you, I'm aware of that. But Ethrea is friend to every nation in this room and has been for centuries. You must know that whatever I tell you today is the truth.”

Voolksyn settled his fists on his hips and jutted his beard at her. “Like your father you pour words from your mouth like syrup, queen. What do you know?”

His tone was insolent, his green gaze hostile. Her privy councillors bristled again, and for the second time she calmed them with a lifted hand.

“Ambassador Voolksyn, I know a new power rises in the far east,” she said softly. “A long-dead empire crawling out of its grave. It is called Mijak, and it is soaked in blood. Already many lands have fallen to its fearsome warriors. I fear Icthia is its most recent conquest. And I believe that if we do not act now, together, Ethrea will fall…and after us, all of you.”

As Voolksyn considered her words, Gutten stared at Han. “Who told you this? His witch-men?”

Han met Gutten's glare calmly. “Sun-dao, my most powerful witch-man, has seen in the wind the warriors of Mijak. He has seen the blood tide. He has seen the end of all things. Only a fool turns his face from the wind.”

“Only a fool believes the word of Tzhung-tzhungchai,” retorted Gutten. “The wind of your words would blow us on the rocks. You would wreck every nation and make the pieces Tzhung. You and this woman of Ethrea, you concoct a tale to frighten children. You and this woman plot behind closed doors and seek to swallow the world.”

“Gutten speaks the truth,” grunted Voolksyn. “No Emperor of Tzhung-tzhungchai has done a thing that will not serve him first.”

Han smiled. “Do you insult me on your master's behalf? Or does the Slainta of Harbisland keep a dog that barks without permission?”

“You call me dog?” Voolksyn bared his teeth, one fist rising. “Harbisland has no fear of the Tzhung! Harbisland spits on Tzhung-tzhungchai! Harbisland—”

“Gentlemen!” Rhian shouted, and leapt to her feet. “You stand in my realm, beneath my roof. Try my patience further and I shall see you both recalled in disgrace. I did not invite you here so you might brawl like common sailors in a harbour tavern!”