Hammer Of God (20 page)

“Stop it,” he muttered, feeling his fingers clench to fists. “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it!”

As he shouted he raised his fists above his head, pain and despair and a righteous anger igniting him.

He opened his eyes, and saw he was on fire.

Oh, Hettie.

The last time he'd been a prisoner of this mystifying power, Marlan had died for touching him. How he'd screamed and screamed inside his head, screamed at Marlan stay back, don't touch me…but Marlan was never a man for listening and so he'd burned and died.

Not again, Hettie. Don't make me kill again.

In the castle's Grand Ballroom the ambassadors stumbled to a choking silence. Even Gutten of Arbenia stared, abruptly speechless.

To his great relief, this time his wits didn't desert him as he burned. He knew who he was, and where he was, and most importantly, what he must do.

Turning his back on the dumbstruck ambassadors, he walked to Rhian on her dais.

“You're hurt, Majesty,” he said. “Let me heal you.”

“Please,” she replied, tears glinting, and stepped down to join him on the parquetry floor.

He cupped his palm to her stitched cheek. Heat surged through him, and she gasped as her wound burned bright as a brand for one heartbeat, two heartbeats. Then it faded, Ursa's neat stitches consumed, and all that remained was her whole, healed face.

Rhian stepped back, unsteady on her feet. Her fingers came up to touch her mended flesh. “Thank you, Dexterity,” she whispered.

“It's God's doing, not mine.”

“And we offer him our thanks,” said Helfred loudly, from the dais. “And thank you too. God bless you, Mister Jones.”

Bless Hettie, more like. She'd got him mixed up in this again. Knowing he didn't want it. Knowing he'd rather be at home, weeding his tomatoes…

“Don't mention it, Prolate.”

As suddenly as they ignited, the flames wreathing Dexterity extinguished. Relieved, and yet oddly disappointed – Have I done enough? Can I go home now? – he turned to see how the ambassadors reacted to his miracle.

Only Lai was unperturbed. Like his master, Emperor Han, he seemed undismayed by miracles.

The rest of the ambassadors were most dismayed. To a man they were chalky-white, and sweating. Forgetting the treacherous cross-currents of their alliances and enmities, they huddled together like hens facing a fox.

Well, that's something, Hettie. At least it appears they're listening now.

“My lords, you are foolish, every one of you,” he told them severely. “Rich men grown fat and complacent in the world you've created. Well, that world stands on the brink of destruction.” He pointed at Zandakar. “His people are coming to wrest it from you, to bend it and break it and remake it in their cruel image. Together, God willing, we can stop them. But only if we take heed of the warnings God has sent us!”

Gutten, the boldest hen, folded his arms. Chalky-white, yes, and slicked with sweat like the others…but he wasn't just afraid. Bone-deep suspicion warred with his fear. He pointed at Zandakar.

“Warnings from him? Why should we believe them? You say we are complacent. You think we are stupid. You say he comes from Mijak but you have no proof.”

“Proof?” Dexterity stared at him, stunned with disbelief. Then he lifted his healing hands and held them out. “You asked for a miracle, and God provided one. What more proof do you need, Sere Gutten?”

Gutten looked to the shadows, where Emperor Han stood. “The sorcery of Tzhung-tzhungchai is legend.”

“Sorcery?” he said, almost spluttering in his outrage. “It wasn't sorcery, and it wasn't Tzhung-tzhungchai, either!”

Emperor Han came forth from his shadows. “The only sorcery here, Gutten, is the spell of lies you weave with your busy tongue.”

“Mine?” Gutten's chalky-white face burned red. “The lies are yours. Han of Tzhung-tzhungchai is an emperor of lies!”

“Enough!” said Rhian. “Both of you, enough! I'll not have God insulted in this castle.”

Han looked at her, so haughty. “You call what has happened in Ethrea the work of God. My people call it the will of the wind. The wind whispered of bloodsoaked Mijak in my ear. The wind—”

“Does not blow in my court or my kingdom,” said Rhian curtly, and fixed him with a brilliant blue stare. “It has blown you to us, Emperor Han, and I am grateful for your support, but this is Ethrea…and I am ruler here.” She swept the gathered ambassadors with her bleak gaze. “And as Ethrea's ruler I tell you, gentlemen, there is no sorcery conducted in my name or for my benefit. Not by the Tzhung, not by any nation under the sun. And while I am grateful to Tzhung's emperor, you can believe that any country that fights with me against Mijak will also receive my heartfelt thanks. You have my word as queen, I'll be playing no favourites.”

Brooding, Voolksyn of Harbisland tugged at his beard. “You show us a burning man. You show us a prince of Mijak. I cannot say it is enough for my slainta.”

“Then what is enough?” Rhian demanded. “Your people murdered by Mijak? Your streets running with their blood?” She closed the distance between them and stared up into Voolksyn's shuttered eyes. “Are you willing to gamble I'm wrong, Ambassador? You have family in Harbisland. Are you willing to gamble them?”

Voolksyn bared his teeth in a snarling smile. “To reach Harbisland, first Mijak must overrun Ethrea.”

She smiled back at him, just as fiercely, and punched her fist lightly against his spotted sealskin chest. “Exactly. Which is why you must help me.” She looked around. “Why all of you must help me.”

Gutten spat on the beautiful parquetry floor. “You think to lead the trading nations to war? You? A girl?”

“Not a girl,” said Rhian. “A queen who doesn't hesitate to kill for her crown. Don't forget that, Sere Gutten. Besides, you might not all be treatied with each other, but you are all treatied with Ethrea. It's a place to start. A way to find common ground. Surely you can agree with that?”

“Heh,” said Voolksyn. Was he, at least, convinced? It was impossible to say. “When does Mijak come in its warships?”

“I don't know,” said Rhian. “But if I'm right and Icthia has already fallen, then surely our time is running out.”

“Harbisland and Arbenia are treatied beyond the Ethrean charter,” said Voolksyn, turning to Gutten. “What my slainta does, your count considers.”

“And you say your slainta will consider this?” said Gutten, disbelieving.

Voolksyn shrugged. “I say I will tell him what Queen Rhian says.”

“And you'll ask him for ships to sail against Mijak?” said Rhian. “You'll ask him to agree to an Ethrean army?”

“I will ask,” said Voolksyn.

“And the rest of you?” Rhian demanded of the other ambassadors. “Will you make the same requests of your rulers?”

Silence like a knife-edge, sharp and deadly. Dexterity watched as the ambassadors from the lesser trading nations looked to Gutten. It seemed they were too timid to do anything but follow Arbenia's lead.

God save us, Hettie. Their cowardice will kill us all.

“Sere Gutten,” said Rhian, gentling her voice. Behind her softness, Dexterity thought she was raging. “Will you at least consider my request?”

“I will consider it,” Gutten said at last, grudging. “But do not hold your hopes for Arbenia. My count is not ordered by Tzhung-tzhungchai, or a queen who is ordered by the Tzhung in secret.”

A muscle leapt along Rhian's jaw. “I assure you of this, Ambassador. When you hear my voice, you hear only my voice. I am no pupper, I am a sovereign queen. And let me remind you of this, also, Sere Gutten. Ethrea stands as a bridge between every trading nation in the world. Any nation seeking to undermine it must surely do so at its peril. Be certain your count understands that, sir.”

She was threatening him, and Gutten knew it. His florid face darkened and his brows pulled low in a scowl. “Brave words,” he growled. “My count will be interested to hear them.”

“And I will be interested to hear his reply,” said Rhian, so sweetly. Turning from Gutten, she considered the other ambassadors. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your attendance today. Doubtless you'll wish to convey our discussion to your rulers. Please do so, as swiftly as you can contrive. Mijak breathes down all of our necks.”

As the ballroom emptied of Emperor Han and the ambassadors, all mired in their private thoughts, Rhian turned to Idson. “Commander, you and your soldiers escort Zandakar to his apartments. Zandakar—”

Zandakar stirred. “Zho?”

“Meet me in the tiltyard one hour before sunset. Now that Mister Jones has healed me, I'm ready to dance.”

Zandakar's answering smile was brief. “Zho,” he said again, and left with the soldiers.

Dexterity looked at Rhian. “Majesty, might I also be excused? I've gardening to finish and—”

“In a moment,” she replied, and considered her privy council. “My lords, I think that went as well as we could hope for.”

King Alasdair nodded. “I was surprised by Voolksyn's support.”

“He's certainly a better prospect than Gutten,” said Duke Rudi. “That man is trouble.”

Rhian shrugged. “They're all trouble, Rudi, in their own ways.”

“Even Emperor Han?” said Helfred, fingering his prayer beads.

Dexterity watched Rhian and the king exchange glances. “Especially Han,” she replied.

“So all we can do now is wait and pray,” said Duke Ludo. “While their masters make up their minds to help us, or not.”

“Wait, and pray, and take care of domestic matters,” said Rhian. “My lords, you know what's to be done. See it done swiftly, before wider events overwhelm us.”

The privy council murmured acknowledgement of her command. Ven'Cedwin at his little table gathered together all his scribbled parchments and the ballroom emptied completely. As they passed Dexterity, the king and Helfred spared him swift, difficult smiles.

And then he and Rhian faced each other, alone. The silence stretched on and on…full of raw and painful memories.

Rhian broke first. Arms folded, chin tilted, she looked down her nose at him. “I was angry, Dexterity.”

He snorted. “I noticed, Rhian.”

“Can you blame me? You lied to me, you—”

“Did as Hettie asked. How can you complain when that put you on your throne?” He felt the air hitch in his throat as his deepest outrage escaped him. “You gave me to Sun-dao! A witch-man!”

Rhian paled, then tilted her chin higher as colour flooded back into her cheeks. “If he hurt you, Mister Jones, I am truly sorry. But I had to be sure.”

He folded his own arms and matched her stare for stare. “That I hadn't betrayed you? And are you? Are you quite convinced, now, that I never meant you harm?”

“Oh, Dexterity,” Rhian whispered, and suddenly she was a girl again. The haughty queen had disappeared. “Of course I am. I always was, I just – I was rattled, I was overwhelmed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was a fool to doubt you. And I never wanted to cause you pain.”

A blind man could see her contrition was genuine. Dexterity felt the stinging hurt ease. Let his arms slowly unfold. “Yes, well,” he muttered. “I doubt you've been sleeping on a bed of roses, either.”

She managed an unsteady laugh. “Bed of thorns, more like. Dexterity—” She took a step closer. “Can we put this behind us? Will you stay, and be my friend again? This fight isn't over. I – I need you to stay.”

He swallowed a sigh. Oh, Hettie. Hettie. You won't let me rest, will you? With a smile, he nodded.

“Of course I'll stay, Majesty. Where else would I go?”

Dining with Hekat in her palace's dayroom, Vortka picked up his cracked mutton bone and noisily sucked the marrow from it. The glutinous jelly, well-flavoured with spices, slid easily down his throat – but pleasure was fleeting.

Hekat's cooling meal remained untouched.

Leaning over to her plate he selected a choice piece of sauced meat with his bare fingers and held it out. “Eat, Hekat. You must eat.”

Her gaze flickered over him like a blue flame. “Am I hungry, Vortka? I think I am not.”

“Do I care, Hekat?” he retorted. “I think I do not.”

Irritated amusement chased across her face. “Tcha, you are a bold man, you give your empress orders.” She snatched the dripping mutton from him and pushed it between her teeth. Chewed. Swallowed. Her throat worked to get the soft meat into her belly. “You think I will not smite a bold man? I think you are wrong.”

He answered her with another piece of mutton. “Smiting takes strength, Hekat. Eat more, you will have strength.”

She took the meat from his fingers with her teeth this time, she bit him too and smiled to hear him cry out. “I am strong, Vortka high godspeaker,” she said, capturing smears of sauce with her fingertips. “I save my appetite for the god.”

He watched her suck clean her skin, remembering the she-brat in Et-Nogolor, so haughty, so self-possessed, who had given him food from her own meagre bowl. He remembered the confusion in her startling eyes, she did not know why she gave her food to a slave.

Her first time generous, she has rarely been generous since.

“The god desires its empress healthy,” he said, returning to his own plate. Warm flatbread sat on a plate between them. He selected a piece and sopped up his meat's spicy sauce. “Rest and good food, the god desires you glut yourself with both, Hekat. The journey to Ethrea will be arduous, will you be weak when we see that island?”

She glowered at him from beneath lowered lashes. “I do not wonder if I will be weak, Vortka, I wonder if we will ever see it.”

“We will see it,” he replied. “In the god's eye, in the god's time, Mijak will see the island of Ethrea.”

“Tcha.” She pulled her burdened plate closer and ate savagely, tearing at the meat as though it was that island. “The god's time is slow, Vortka. How many more highsuns must I wait before the trade winds come?”

“As many as please the god, Hekat. Do you need me to tell you that?”

“No,” she muttered, with a poisonous look.

He poured more wine for her and held out the goblet. With a grunt she accepted it. He watched her drink deeply, swiftly. She drank more these days, he saw that but said nothing. Icthia's date wine soothed the pains that lived inside her, it made his crystal healing of her easier to bear. He did not speak of her drinking, she would strike him if he dared. If she drank too much he would speak then, let her strike him as she liked.

Slaves entered the dayroom with platters of fruit, sweet melons and tart pomegranates and honey-soaked dates. They took the emptied plates away with them, Hekat paid no attention. She stared through the open balcony doors to the harbour where the boats of Mijak's warhost danced on the water in patterns like hotas. Her warriors grew more skilled every highsun, boats were feared no longer, the water was no enemy to Mijak.

Perhaps this is why the god has kept the trade winds from us. Hekat is impatient, she would lead her warhost into the world and the warhost would follow for love and fear of her. But if the warhost is drowned because it is not yet ready, how then can it serve the god? It cannot. Aieee, the god see me. It knows what to do.

“Vortka,” said Hekat, “how do your godspeakers progress with the warhost's horses?”

It was part of her grand plan, that her warriors must have their horses when they reached the island Ethrea and every land beyond it. How would they be warriors of Mijak if they walked on foot? But horses could not swim to Ethrea, they could not gallop across the water, they must travel with the warriors in the warhost's boats.

Captured slaves had told them how horses on boats could not be ridden after, not for many highsuns. The slaves had told them how horses could die on boats, cooped up below the timber decks, crushed into small stalls with nowhere to run. Horses were animals that died easily with nerves, what Mijaki did not know that, when horses were their lives?

Do something, Vortka, Hekat had said. You are high godspeaker, you are a healer with your crystal. Find the way to heal a horse.

So he and his godspeakers prayed and worked to satisfy Hekat. They were not altogether successful, many horses still died from the crystal. Some godspeakers had died, he had not told her that.

“It is a difficult task you have set, Hekat,” he said.

She glared. “Do I care? I think I do not. Give me horses for the warhost. Will my warriors be slaves on their feet in Ethrea?”

He sighed. “Healing is not a simple thing, Hekat.”

“You are not healing, Vortka. The horses are not sick. I think you must try harder.”

“Harder than dying, Hekat?” He slapped his hand to the table. “Tcha!”

She sat straighter upon her cushioned divan, fingers drifting to curl about her snakeblade. “Who is dying? What do you keep from me?”

Aieee, the god see him, he had not meant to say it. She could goad him to hot words like no other in his life. “You need not worry, it is godspeaker business.”

“Vortka!” It was two fingers before lowsun, that time when her strength was ebbed closest to its dregs. She did not think of that, she leapt to her feet like Hekat the knife-dancer, she clenched her fist in his face, then struck him on the cheek. “You dare to say this? You dare keep secrets from me?”

In her rage she was not weary, in her rage she was the Hekat who slew the warlord Bajadek. She snatched at her scorpion amulet, she shook it before his wary eyes. Her silver godbells shouted her anger.

“Shall the god task you, Vortka? Shall this scorpion sting your godspark for your sins?”

Another sharp memory: Abajai and Yagji, those greedy traders, stung to death by the god.

I grow older, I remember things, the past returns to plague me.

He stood to meet her fury. “Does the god need your amulet to task me, empress? I think it does not.” His fingers drummed the scorpion pectoral clasping his chest then closed hard around hers. The scorpion amulet was cold, the god was not woken. “I breathe by the god's desire, I die when it decrees.” He laid his hand against her scarred cheek and smiled. “Godspeakers dying is godspeakers' business.”

She did not want to be moved by his hand on her face, she resented all human touching, all gestures of warmth. Her cold eyes showed him her resentment, showed him how she fought not to be moved by his touch. It made his heart ache.

Hekat, Hekat, will you die if I touch you? I am Vortka, you are safe with me.

She stepped back. “Why do your godspeakers die, Vortka? What have you done wrong?”

“Nothing,” he told her. “I have told you already, what you ask for is difficult.”

“The god asks for this,” she said, her eyes slitted. “The god asks, you obey.”

Aieee, the god see him. When would she listen? “Hekat, if the warhost's horses are to survive in the boats, if they are to leap strong and angry from the boats to dry land, then my godspeakers and I must change them from within. Do you think this is simple?”

“I think this is what the god desires you to do!”

“And I strive to do it, Hekat. But I am a man, I am only flesh and blood. The god's power is mighty, when it thunders in the blood a man's bones might melt. A godspeaker might melt, Hekat. I might melt.”

“Tcha! This cannot be a concern to you, Vortka. You are high godspeaker.”

Now he smiled at her. “And still I am a man.”

“A stupid man,” she muttered, temper easing at last. “I am the god's empress, how can I help you if you do not tell me what you do?”

How can you help me when you cannot help yourself? But he kept that thought close, frail or not she would strike him to the ground if he spoke those terrible words aloud.

“I do not think there is a way for you to help me,” he said carefully. “You are a warrior, you are not a healer. This is godspeaker business.”

Hekat's blue eyes widened. “And I breathe for the god.” She snatched her snakeblade from her hip and slashed it through her forearm. “I bleed for the god. When you could not break that desert, Vortka, I broke it. I conquered the scorpion pit. I defeated Nagarak. I gave the god two warlords, two hammers for its fist. I am Hekat, Empress of Mijak. The world is my business, I give the world to the god.”

Her blood was dripping to the blue marble floor. The cut in her arm must hurt her, she did not show her pain. Vortka sighed. “You think the god wants this, Hekat? I think it does not.”

“The god wants Mijak in Ethrea, Vortka, it wants Mijak in Keldrave, in Barbruish, in Haisun. It wants Mijak in Arbenia and in Harbisland and Tzhung-tzhungchai. Where there are men in the world the god wants them kneeling before it. Godposts on every street, godhouses on every hill. The valleys must run with blood until the god is everywhere.”

“But not your blood!” he retorted. He slid his healing crystal from its pouch, took hold of her wrist and tugged her to him. “Stupid Hekat, do you need to convince me you are chosen by the god? I think you do not. I think I knew it before you did.”

“Tcha,” she said, scornful, but did not pull away.

The god's power filled him as he healed the wound in her flesh. She still held her snakeblade, he had no fear of that. She might strike him, she might scourge him with her tongue, she would never touch him with her snakeblade. He belonged to the god as much as she, never would she tempt its smiting by harming him.

When she was whole again she looked up, grudgingly thankful. “Be as skilful with the horses, Vortka, and the god will be pleased.”

“The god is already pleased,” he said. “It sees how I am working for it and knows I am obedient.”

“And it knows Hekat can do things that Vortka cannot,” she replied, pushing her snakeblade into its sheath. “You and your godspeakers need help to change the horses. You need more power, I know where power lies.”

He felt his skin chill to coldness. “No, Hekat. We need slaves as much as warriors and godspeakers.”

She grimaced. “Not old ones. Not crippled ones. Not slaves that spread disease. Those slaves have one purpose, to give their blood to the god.”

“Hekat…” He turned away from her and walked to the balcony, let the clean ocean air whip his godbells into song. “That power is unclean.”

“Unclean? You can say so? Vortka, you are stupid. That power broke the desert!”

And I think it broke you, too. Ever since those thousands of dead slaves, dead by your hand, you have been different, as though something within you drowned in those wet red sands.

Another thought he must keep to himself. He had tried and tried, she would not listen when he counselled caution in this.

I think I would rather that desert had defeated us, we crossed that desert and left something precious behind.

“The god has said no human blood for sacrifice.”

“No human blood for the trade winds,” Hekat retorted. “I have obeyed, I do not summon the trade winds. I wait and I wait, while the trade winds do not come. This blood is for the horses, the god does not say no to that.”

Vortka ground his teeth. Hekat made words a game, she made them say what she desired. If he argued with her she would close her heart to him.

I need her heart open or else I cannot help.

Hekat joined him on the balcony and tugged him round to face her. Her fingers tapped lightly on his cheek. “I am the god's chosen, I know what you need. Come. We will walk to the slave pens, I will give you hot blood and with its power you will change the warhost's horses.”

“Walk?” He shook his head. “Hekat—”

“Tcha!” she said, frowning. “I have eaten meat and fruit, I am strong for the god.”

He did not argue this either, she would never listen. She stood defiant before him, dressed in an old linen training tunic, pretending she was still the Hekat who danced with her snakeblade. It was true, she did dance, some newsuns here and there, when she was not quite so frail.

But you are not invincible, Hekat. Aieee, god, help me to help her see it.

Together they walked from her small palace into the hot and blinding sun.

The slave pens were down at the harbour. Before Jatharuj fell to Mijak, they were pens for livestock. Before Mijak, the people of Jatharuj had bred goats with long curly coats, the hair was shorn for wool and sold to other godless nations and the goats were sold too. Not any more. Those goats belonged to the godhouse now, they birthed more goats for sacrifice, not wool, and the pens by the harbour held discarded human slaves.

The streets of Jatharuj were almost empty. Jatharuj slept in this hot time before lowsun, and woke to bustling and business as dusk cooled the air. There were godspeakers seeing to the god's wants, collecting coins and lesser offerings from the godbowls, making certain slaves who had permission to be outdoors did not attempt a blasphemy or dally in gossip. Three thousand Mijakis from Et-Raklion had made the long journey to Jatharuj. It was their city now, the Icthians who had owned it were dead or made slaves. Jatharuj was all Mijak, it was too important a place to be anything else. Other capitulated cities had been permitted to live in the god's eye, but not Jatharuj. Nearly all of its houses were made barracks for the warhost, most of its resources were given over to Mijak's warriors.

So many warriors, they would conquer the world.

The slaves who did walk the streets fell to the ground as Hekat approached, their scarlet godbraids bright in the sun. If they did not they were nailed to a godpost, it had only taken a handful of nailings for the slaves of Jatharuj to understand their place. The walking godspeakers did not fall to the ground, they bowed to their empress and their high godspeaker. They did not speak unless spoken to first.

Hekat was in no mood for speaking.

On the wide harbour the warhost continued to dance hotas with its boats. Walking with Hekat, aware of her every sharp breath, every hitch in her stride, Vortka rested his gaze upon them and marvelled at the skill.