Hammer Of God (28 page)

“Oh, Rhian!” Dexterity stamped to the window, and back again. “Run away? Leave you? He'd sooner cut out his own heart!”

Silence as they stared at each other. When she found her voice, it was thinned to a whisper. “I don't know what you mean.”

He snorted. “Oh yes you do, but it's neither here nor there. I've not come to talk of that, I've come to talk of giving Zandakar his freedom. Rhian, you can't ask a man to die for you, and treat him like a slave.”

She stepped back. “A slave? Dexterity Jones—”

“A slave's what I said and a slave's what I meant,” he said, caring nothing for protocol. “If you can't trust him to stay by your side unchained, what makes you think you can trust him with Ethrea?”

“That's not – I don't – how dare you come here and—”

“Majesty?” said a shocked voice. “Majesty, is aught amiss?”

She turned to see Dinsy, as rumpled as Dexterity, her plump cheeks flushed with sleep, standing in the parlour's other doorway.

“Oh, Majesty,” said Dinsy. “Forgive me! I – I – fell to dozing and didn't realise you and His Majesty were returned from chapel.”

Fell to dozing? Oh, poor Dinsy. She looks as tired as I feel. It's no good, I must send for noble ladies to help her. She can't continue to maid me on her own. Ignoring Dexterity, she went to the girl. “Don't cry, Dinsy, it's all right. I'm not angry. And no, there's nothing wrong. Mister Jones and I were merely – disagreeing.”

Dinsy sniffed. “You were shouting, Majesty. It's a wonder the guards haven't broke in.”

“I told them not to,” she said. “Go back inside. I'll join you in a moment.”

With a last glowering look at Dexterity, Dinsy obeyed.

“You know I'm right, Rhian,” Dexterity said as soon as they were alone again. “I can see it in your face.”

Drat her face. “Dexterity, it's complicated.”

He stared, his eyes narrowed. “You're the queen, Rhian. It's only as complicated as you choose to make it.”

“As I choose? Oh, Dexterity!” She folded her arms. “Yourself aside, my councillors don't trust him. Neither does Emperor Han. And if I let him go roaming about Kingseat I have no doubt he'd end up kidnapped by Gutten or Voolksyn or one of the others! I keep him close here for protection, can't you see that?”

“So close he's suffocating,” said Dexterity. “Let him come home with me, just for a day or two. There's that much time you can spare him, isn't there?”

Well, yes. She did have a few days, especially now the ambassadors were playing their stupid games.

“Rhian,” said Dexterity. Not angry now, but more serious than ever she'd seen him. “This news of Mijak. The human blood being spilled. It's crushed him. He needs some time, to ease his pain. He needs fresh air and sunshine and a change of scenery. I'll keep him safe at my cottage, you know I will.”

Curious, she considered him. “I never realised you were so fond of him.”

Dexterity shrugged. “Am I fond, or do I feel responsible? Could be it's a bit of both. It doesn't matter. Can he come home with me? Please?”

If she said yes, Alasdair would shout at her. Helfred would likely scold. So would the dukes, if they were here.

But Dexterity's right. I am the queen. And I owe Zandakar so much more than my life. If he needs this small favour, how can I not grant it?

“Very well,” she sighed. “I'll grant you three days. I expect Edward and Rudi home from inspecting Ethrea's garrisons in that time. Once they've returned we must look at building our army, and Zandakar is central to that.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Dexterity, widely smiling. “Three days and not a clock-tick longer, you have my word.”

“I don't want him out of your sight, Dexterity. And he's not to travel beyond the home districts,” she added. “You're to tell no-one who he is. If they ask, he's a servant.”

He was nodding vigorously. “Yes, yes. Of course. Thank you, Your Majesty. You're doing the right thing.”

“Let's hope so,” she replied. “Now we'd best give him the good news.”

Han wandered the paths through the main garden of Ambassador Lai's residence, listening to the windchimes singing. Breathing in the scents of his empire. Every flower around him came from somewhere in Tzhung-tzhungchai: the mountains of Tzinto, the marshes of Yeuhy, the spreading plains of Golontan. Every province represented, not a district forgotten. The sand beneath his bare feet was brought here from Tzhung's beaches and rivers, ochre and salt-white, eggshell blue and obsidian black, swept and swirled to honour the wind. If he closed his eyes, he might believe he was at home.

If I close my eyes, I will fall to sleep on my feet.

He'd spent the night in the witch-garden with Sun-dao and his witch-men, helping them keep the trade winds at bay. Now his bones were hollow. The early morning light stabbed pain through his head. He was hungry, thirsty, he needed to rest. But instead he prowled this garden, breathing memories and wrestling with thoughts he did not wish to share.

Beyond the high walls of the residence, Kingseat township and its harbour were stirring to life. The restless wind chimes drowned the sounds of voices, horses, carts and barrows and the ivy-covered stonework hid Kingseat from his sight, but with his witch-senses he could feel them.

All these innocent souls, whom Rhian can't protect.

A second letter had come from the castle late last night, informing his ambassador that the urgent meeting of trading nations she had requested was now postponed. Of course Lai had brought it to him at once, daring to sound the chimes at the witch-garden's gate, daring to disturb his emperor at work.

Han had not chastised him, for the letter was important, the meaning behind it clear and unwelcome: the other ambassadors had refused Rhian's summons. They resisted her authority. She could not bend them to her will.

And so was he presented with a dilemma. The wind had blown him here to seek Ethrea's help…or so he'd thought. But Ethrea could not help, for Rhian was helpless in the face of the other ambassadors' intransigence and ruthless self-interest.

I think we are the only hope to defeat brutal Mijak. I think there is room for but one empire in the world – and it will be the empire of the Tzhung.

The salt breeze blew, the wind chimes sang softly, melody and descant, harmony and counterpoint. Every note contained a truth. Han stood in the sunshine and let the truth blow through him, opened himself to the wisdom of the wind.

“Sun-dao,” he said, when he understood what must be done. “Sun-dao, come.”

A moment later Sun-dao stepped out of the twilight and joined him among the sunlit flowers.

“Han.”

Han stared at his brother, stricken. The sunlight was merciless, revealing in full the cost of their battle against Mijak. “Sun-dao…”

Sun-dao smiled. “Emperor, you must not distress yourself. I am not dying. Not yet.”

Turning away, Han stared at the vibrant pink blossoms on a nearby chynyi tree from Tan-tan province. “You don't amuse me, Sun-dao.”

“Did you summon me for amusement?”

Sweating beneath his black silk tunic, Han turned back. “I summoned you because there is a task. But Sun-dao, I see you now and—”

“What is this task?” said Sun-dao, still smiling. “What does my emperor desire of me?”

“The wind has spoken, Sun-dao,” he sighed. “It says—”

“That Rhian of Ethrea has failed,” said Sun-dao. “I know.”

Of course he knew. He was Sun-dao. “She has failed…but we have not. There is another way to defeat Mijak, Sun-dao.”

“Han…” Sun-dao shook his head. “Do we discuss this again? The blood power of Mijak obscures all vision. I am the greatest witch-man in Tzhung and I cannot see what I must see to do what you want. I could, with great difficulty, witch my way to Icthia, yes, but—”

“And you will,” he said. “But not alone.”

“Not alone?” echoed Sun-dao, after a silent, staring moment. “Han, you cannot come.”

Han sighed again, and tipped his face to the sun. “I know it. And even if I could, what use would I be? I can't see what must be seen, either. But, Sun-dao, you and I don't need to see. In Ethrea there is a man who can see these things for us. Who can show us the way so what must be done, can be done.”

Sun-dao breathed in sharply. “Zandakar?”

“It's possible we misheard the wind, Sun-dao. It's possible it blew us here not for Rhian, but for her captive prince of Mijak.”

“You think to trust Zandakar to kill his mother and brother?” said Sun-dao, incredulous. “You'd send him to strike off the twinned heads of Mijak so its body will die?”

Han laughed. “No. How could I? I've seen his heart, Sundao, as you have. Even as he hates what they do, weak love tells him they can still be turned from their slaughter. This prince of Mijak is a great fool.”

“And yet you would trust him?”

Han rested his arm about his brother's weary shoulders. “To guide you to his murdering mother and brother once you reach Icthia, so you can kill them? Yes. I would.”

Sun-dao smoothed his moustaches. “And you would tell him…”

“That the wind has told me he can save them, with our help. He won't refuse. He loves them too much.”

Sun-dao nodded slowly. “This is true.”

Turning, Han pulled Sun-dao to him in a close embrace. “But oh, my brother,” he whispered. “It will be a cruel thing, witching a boat all the way to Icthia. Were you rested and unchallenged it would be cruel enough. You are neither. This battle for the trade winds—”

“Has not defeated me, Han,” said Sun-dao. “You are my emperor, and this is my task. When do I go?”

For a moment he couldn't answer, struck to silence by Sun-dao's simple faith. “Soon,” he said, his voice breaking. “It must be soon. After you've rested.”

Sun-dao nodded. “And the trade winds?”

Han released him and stepped back. Laid a hand against his brother's thin, pain-filled face. “You will not worry,” he said sternly. “I'll fight the trade winds for both of us, Sun-dao.”

“You've done what, Jones?” demanded Ursa, standing aghast in the sunlit kitchen. “Brought Zandakar here? Rollin's mercy, are you out of your mind?”

Dexterity flapped a hand at his unexpected visitor. “Hush, Ursa! He's awake too, and only in the other room. Do you want to hurt his feelings?”

“I want to hurt you, Jones,” she snapped. “What were you thinking? Are you going to sleep with your eyes open to make sure he doesn't bolt like a rabbit the first chance he gets?”

“He's not going to bolt. He gave Rhian his word.”

“His word?” said Ursa, incredulous. “And what's that worth? He's a heathen warrior with blood on his hands! He shouldn't even be out of the castle dungeon.”

“How can you be so harsh? After everything he's done for Rhian, how can you—”

“And after everything you've learned, Jones, after what Hettie showed you, how can you not see him for the danger he is?”

Bewildered, Dexterity retreated to the sink and slumped against it. “I don't understand. You liked him well enough on the road.”

Hands on her hips, eyes squinting with her displeasure, Ursa made a sharp, dismissive sound. “That was before I knew the truth of him, Jones. That was before I knew he'd murdered children.”

“And he's sorry for that,” he retorted. “Which must count for something. Think how he was raised, Ursa. From the moment of his birth Zandakar was taught to kill. He was taught to worship his god with blood and death. And now he's turned his back on that. I think it's a miracle as great as anything I've done, don't you?”

“Being sorry is all well and good, Jones,” said Ursa, “but can his sorrow undo the destruction of cities? Can anything undo murder on that scale?”

Dexterity stared at the floor. They were fair questions. And of course he understood how Ursa felt. He'd felt the same way himself. With the death of Garabatsas haunting him still…of course he understood. But he still believed in Zandakar's remorse.

Does that make me a gullible fool? I hope not, for all our sakes.

“Ursa…” he said, gentling his voice. “I confess, when I first learned what he'd done I wanted to hate him. I wanted to leave him to starve to death, or worse. But Hettie says we need him. And doesn't Rollin expect us to find forgiveness in our hearts?”

“Rollin?” Now Ursa was almost spitting. “You'd quote Rollin to me, you, a man who refused to set foot in a church for twenty years? Jones, you're perilous close to hypocrisy!”

“You're complaining?” He straightened, offended. “After twenty years of nagging me about not going to church you're complaining because I've reacquainted myself with Rollin?”

“No, Jones!” Ursa roared. “I'm complaining because when that bloodthirsty heathen does bolt like a rabbit it's your head Rhian'll have shoved on a chopping block!”

“Well, I'm sure I'm touched by your concern, Ursa, but seeing as how Zandakar won't be bolting you're wasting your time worrying about me and—”

“Wei, Dexterity. Wei, Ursa,” said Zandakar, standing in the kitchen doorway. “Wei fight for me.”

Dexterity threw up his hands. “See, Ursa? Now look what you've done!”

Instead of answering, she watched as Zandakar came into the kitchen, opened a drawer in the dresser and took out a carving knife. Gasping, she took a step back.

“Wei,” Zandakar said, and held out the knife. “Wei be afraid, Ursa.”

“Jones?” Her voice quavered. “Jones, what is he doing?”

“I don't know. Zandakar—”

Zandakar held up a hand, demanding quiet. Taking a step closer to Ursa, again he tried to give her the knife. Not violent, but insistent. “You take.”

Eyebrows pinched she took it, reluctant. “Now what?”

His answer was to wrap his fingers round hers on the knife's old hilt, drop to his knees and press the blade's point against the hollow in the base of his throat.

“Zandakar, stop this,” said Dexterity nervously. “It won't solve anything. Violence rarely does.”

Zandakar ignored him, instead fixing his gaze on Ursa's alarmed face. His expression was almost tender in its concern. “You wei trust? You think Zandakar hurt Dexterity, hurt Rhian, hurt Ethrea?” His fingers tightened. The knife-point sank into his flesh, releasing a bright red bead of blood. “Kill now, Ursa.”

“Jones, is this some kind of trick?” said Ursa.

Dexterity hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I think this is the only way he can think of to make you believe him.”

“Well, it's ridiculous!” she retorted. “I'm a physick, I don't kill people. Not even when they're as wicked as Zandakar.”

Oh dear. “This is silly. Ursa spoke harshly, it's true, but Zandakar – you know she's got a tart tongue. You've heard her sharpening it on my hide often enough. She didn't mean what she said. Did you, Ursa?”

“I meant every word, Jones,” said Ursa. Frightened but stubborn, clinging to her principles no matter what.

“I kill, zho,” said Zandakar, his hands and voice steady. “For Mijak. Is done. I blood oath for Rhian now.”

“Which only goes to show you're fickle!” said Ursa, rallying. “Who's to say you won't change your mind again?”

“Ursa!” Dexterity protested. “He turned against Mijak because he realised the slaughter was wrong! You can't have it both ways! How can he be wrong for killing and for refusing to kill any more?”

“He can be wrong a dozen ways between now and Rollin's Day, Jones! Your problem is you're a soft-hearted ninny.”

Her words stung, but he pushed the pain aside. “Ursa, our queen accepts him. How can you do any less?”

“Tcha!” said Ursa, and blew a strand of silver hair out of her eyes. “Who's our queen, Jones? A young girl not even at her majority, dragged way past her depth and scared into desperation. And with her head turned by this handsome troublemaker. A bit of fancy footwork with a knife and her judgement's gone to blazes.”

“But what about Hettie, Ursa? You know what she told me. What about God?”

Ursa snorted. “What about his god? His chalava? What if it starts whispering in his ear again, commanding him to kill all us heathens – starting with you!”

Zandakar's fingers tightened on the knife again. “Wei, Ursa. Wei hurt Dexterity. Wei hurt Rhian.”

“That's what you say now, but how can I believe it?” said Ursa, a storm of conflict in her face. “You're dangerous, Zandakar.”

Zandakar nodded. “Zho. Yatzhay.”

“Oh, yatzhay, yatzhay,” she said, bitterly scornful. “You throw that word around like rice. But do you mean it, Zandakar? Are you really sorry? For all of it?”

Slowly, so slowly, Zandakar's eyes filled with tears. “Zho.”

Still racked with indecision, Ursa looked up. “Jones?”

He nodded. “Zho.”

A riot of thoughts chased across her face. “I wonder which is worse?” she said at last. “To murder thousands of innocents and feel no remorse…or to murder thousands and then realise you were wrong.”

“I don't know,” he replied. “You'd have to ask Helfred.”

Ursa sighed heavily. “Helfred. I suppose he's on your side?”

“Mostly he's on God's side. But he sees we need Zandakar.”

“Yes, we do, Jones, but do we need him in your kitchen?”

“Ursa…” Dexterity tugged at his beard. “Zandakar needed to get out of the castle. It's only for a few days. And nothing will go wrong.”

She shook her head. “You'd better hope not, Jones, for all our sakes.” She glared down at Zandakar. “Oh, do get up. You look ridiculous, and my fingers have got cramp. If I sneeze accidentally I will kill you. Go on! Get up!”

Zandakar let go of the knife and stood. After tossing it in the sink, Ursa examined the small cut at the base of his throat.

“It's nothing,” she muttered. “Dab some phorbia sap on it, you'll never know the skin was breached.” Then she turned. “Well, since you're set on ignoring good advice and keeping him here, Jones, how are you going to amuse yourselves?”

He exchanged glances with Zandakar. “Well, today we're selling toys in the harbour market. And tomorrow I thought we'd take the donkey cart and trundle for a looksee round the home districts. Fresh air and sunshine, that's what he needs.”

“That may be what he needs,” she said. “As for what ails you, Jones, I'd say there's no cure!”

“See?” he said, grinning at Zandakar. “Didn't I tell you she sharpens her tongue on my hide?”