Hammer Of God (41 page)

“These are dreadful tidings, Han,” she said, closing her hand over his. His fingers were lax beneath hers, as though he couldn't feel her touch. “You have my sorrow, and the sorrow of Ethrea.”

Still he seemed dazed. He seemed not like an emperor, but like any grieving ordinary man. “Sun-dao,” he whispered, shuddering, staring at the floor. “Sun-dao.”

She felt a chill rush through her. “He's dead?”

Han lifted his gaze. The pain in his eyes was searing. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “He was my brother.”

What? “I'm sorry, Han. I had no idea.”

Stirring, he pulled his hand from beneath hers. “The secrets of Tzhung are not for the world.”

“How many more of your witch-men have died, Han?” How many allies had she lost, that she could not afford?

“Over one hundred,” he said, his drawn face twisted with pain. “We are growing too few…”

We? She exchanged a glance with Helfred, who was almost dancing in his eagerness to pepper her and the emperor with questions. A sharply raised finger warned him to hold his tongue.

“So, I was right,” she said quietly. “You are a witch-man.”

Han's eyes gleamed as his gaze shifted to Helfred. “It is a Tzhung secret. I am weary. My witch-senses are blunt. I would not have walked in the wind to you if I had felt the presence of your—”

She closed her hand on his again. “Helfred won't say a word, Han. I promise.” She glared sideways. “Will you, Helfred?”

Helfred looked displeased. “Majesty—”

“Rulers have secrets, Prolate, which they must keep for the good of the realm. Sometimes rulers keep each other's secrets.”

“Yes, but—”

“And as prolate, I imagine you keep secrets from your most venerables of the Ecclesiastica.”

She knew very well that he did. And he knew that she knew – and what they were. Fingers tight around his prayer beads, he nodded. “Very well,” he said, grudging. “The emperor's secret is safe with me.”

“Good.”

“Provided the keeping of it does not endanger Ethrea.”

Oh, Helfred. Stop trying to have the last word. “Of course, Prolate. I've not quite lost my wits yet.” Turning back to Han, she unfolded from her crouch. “Tell me what I need to know, Han. You say the trade winds return? That means—”

Han nodded. “Yes. Mijak will come.”

She felt her blood leap, her heart thud. “Why did you and your witch-men break, Han? Why did Sun-dao and the others die?”

His drooping eyelids widened, as though he looked upon a scene of horror. “Mijak spilled so much human blood,” he whispered. “Their priests' dark power rose like a tide, sweeping us before it. We tried to stop them but their evil drowned us. Sun-dao—”

His voice broke on the name, tears flooding his eyes. Rhian found it deeply unsettling, to see the Emperor of Tzhung so distraught. If a man so urbane, so experienced, so – so imperial could be brought low by Mijak—

Rollin give me strength. How will I stand?

Han stared up at her. “Rhian, the trade winds blow against us. There is no more time for Arbenia and Harbisland and the rest to play their games.” With a grunting effort he stood, and smoothed his rumpled silk tunic. Then his fingers closed hard around her wrist. “We must go.”

“Unhand the queen, Emperor Han,” Helfred commanded. “You forget yourself, sir.”

Rhian silenced him with a look. “Han,” she said quietly, not pulling herself free. “What do you need of me? Where must we go?”

“Your burning man. The prince of Mijak.” He flinched. “Sun-dao. I will take you to them.”

“God's mercy!” said Helfred, staring. “You know where they are and you didn't tell us? How dare you?”

Han ignored him, his grief-ravaged face now smooth and blank as sand. “I will dare anything to save Tzhung-tzhungchai. Come with me, Rhian. You're needed.”

Now she pulled free, fury like fire racing through her. It was hard to breathe. “No. I won't travel like a witch-man. Tell me where to go and I'll meet you there.”

“There is no time! You will come, you—”

“Don't you give me orders in my castle!” she shouted. “When you've lied, when you've used me, when you've stolen my people? Don't you do it!”

Shocked, Han stared at her. Then he nodded. “The ambassador's residence. Come alone. Quickly.”

A gust of wind. A cry of anguish as his smooth face twisted with pain. He vanished.

“Sweet Rollin,” breathed Helfred, and groped for a pew. “That's not natural. That's not right.” He shook himself. “Obviously you can't go. It's out of the question.”

She turned on him, fury still burning. “Am I required to ask your permission, Helfred?”

“What?” he said, taken aback. “Well, no, but—”

“Han can take me to Zandakar and Dexterity. Of course I'm going.”

“But Rhian – Your Majesty—”

“Oh don't fuss, Helfred,” she said, heading for the chapel door. “I'll take Alasdair with me.”

“Han told you to come alone!” he called after her.

She paused and looked back at him. “So? I answer to me, not Han of Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

“And to God, Rhian,” said Helfred, soberly. “Don't forget that in the midst of your intrigues.”

She wrenched open the chapel door. “How could I, Helfred? You're so diligent in reminding me.”

“Rhian! You really must not—”

She closed the door on his indignant reply.

She found Alasdair where she'd left him two hours previously: in the privy council chamber with Edward, poring over lists of each duchy garrison's standing equipment.

“Majesty,” said her duke, as bluff and florid as ever. “I fail to see how we can—”

“Edward, excuse us,” she said, not bothering with niceties. “In fact, why don't you retire? I know for certain you've been reading lists since first light this morning. You must take better care of yourself, I can't afford to lose one of my most seasoned advisors to a gripe or an ague brought on by overwork.”

Edward was a wily old fox. With barely a glance at Alasdair, he bowed. “Majesty. I'll not say I'd regret some strong ale and an early night.” He nodded at Alasdair. “King Alasdair.”

“What's happened?” said Alasdair, when they were alone.

“It's complicated,” she said. “We have to go.”

He didn't look as exhausted as Emperor Han, but shadows darkened his eyes and his face was rough with stubble. “Go where? Rhian—”

She took his hands in hers and tugged. “To the Tzhung ambassador's residence. Please, Alasdair. We must hurry.”

He stared at her. “But why? Rhian, what is—”

“Alasdair. Come.” She started walking backwards, pulling him with her. “I'll tell you what I can on the way, though I warn you: it isn't much.”

Bewildered, but trusting her, he followed. “This sounds mad.”

“Yes,” she said, and tried to smile.

Because it was unthinkable for Ethrea's queen and king to simply leave the castle unannounced, Rhian informed the duty sergeant that she and His Majesty were seeking some privy time. The sergeant had smiled, and nodded, and wished them a good night. Then she and Alasdair escaped to the stables. Soon after, a stable lad was driving them down to the township in a nondescript gig.

“You said you'd explain,” said Alasdair in a low voice.

She glanced at the stable lad's back. “Dexterity and Zandakar,” she murmured, so the boy wouldn't overhear. “Han says he knows where they are.”

“Han says? How would Han know—”

If she told him she doubted he'd control his anger. She tightened her fingers round his hand, a warning. “I'm not sure. We've trouble, Alasdair. The trade winds. Han says they're blowing again.”

There was very little moonslight, and the gig's running lamps weren't well placed. She couldn't see Alasdair's face clearly…but what she could see was profoundly displeased.

“Rhian—”

She glanced again at the stable lad. “Not now.”

They completed the journey in silence.

Down by the harbour the taverns did raucous business; the early Kingseat night was lit by smoking lamps and flaming torches. Vigorous voices and off-key singing laced the carrying air. In contrast, the ambassadorial district was neatly and discreetly lit. Genteely hushed. Not a soul was out walking, it seemed the ambassadors and their people were early asleep. The gig-pony's hooves rang loud on the cobbles.

“Return to the castle,” Rhian told the stable lad when they reached Tzhung-tzhungchai's ambassadorial residence. “Say nothing of myself or the king or where you've been tonight.”

The lad tugged his forelock, obedient, and the gig departed. Rhian watched it for a moment, then she and Alasdair approached the wrought-iron gate guarding the entrance to Lai's official residence. On soundless hinges it swung open and Han stepped out of the shadows. His rumpled green tunic had been changed for black, and something had happened since she saw him in the chapel. He looked merely weary now, not on the brink of utter collapse.

More witch-man doings? It seems likely. I swear, before this is over I'll know what they are and how they do what they do. They've meddled with my kingdom. By God, I will know.

Han saw Alasdair and frowned. “Majesty, I said alone.”

So he must be reminded, as well as Helfred. “I don't answer to you, Han,” she replied, letting her voice bite. “Now, where are Dexterity and Zandakar?”

Still frowning, Han stepped back. “Come. My palanquin awaits us.”

He led them through the exquisitely maintained gardens and past the modest palace, out to the back of the building where, yes indeed, an imperial Tzhung palanquin awaited, resting on the paved courtyard. Beside its gold-inlaid teak poles stood four bulky Tzhung subjects, dressed head to toe in dull black. Even their faces were hidden behind black cloth masks, small eyeslits the only concession to the outside world.

The palanquin itself was equally mysterious, a windowless lacquered dark wood box, with a black leather curtain guarding its entrance. It looked barely large enough to fit one person, let alone three. Blazoned on its side in crimson and gold was the emblem of Tzhung-tzhungchai: a stooping eagle. Because this was Han's personal conveyance the eagle was crowned with an imperial hsanyi blossom, found only in the Tzhung empire.

Han pulled aside the palanquin's curtain. “Please.”

Rhian felt Alasdair's surprise, that the Emperor of Tzhung-tzhungchai would use such a meek word. Or perhaps he's shocked that Han even knows it. Whatever grief the emperor still felt for the death of his brother, it was well-hidden now. Did I imagine his tears?

No. She'd seen them. She'd seen how shocked and dismayed he was, how close to breaking. She touched Alasdair's hand. It felt cold, and reluctant.

“We have to,” she murmured.

They climbed into the palanquin, and Han climbed in after. A swaying, swooping lurch as its bearers lifted the decorative wooden box to their shoulders, and then the palanquin was moving.

It was pitch black inside. Stuffy and indeed very cramped. Rhian folded her knees to her chest beside Alasdair, her shoulder pressed to the padded wall, and let her hand rest on his ankle.

“Where are we going?” she asked Han.

“The harbour.”

“Her Majesty tells me you have news of Mister Jones and Zandakar,” said Alasdair. His voice was clipped and cold in the darkness. “I tell you plainly, Emperor Han, this secrecy does not suit my stomach. What are we about that cannot face the light of day?”

A soft sound as Han sighed. “Your king is an upright man, Queen Rhian. Perhaps he is too good to be a king.”

“I didn't answer your bold summons so I might listen to you pass judgement on my husband,” she said, as cold as Alasdair. “I want answers, Han. Real answers, not word games and evasions. Where are Dexterity and Zandakar? What have they to do with Tzhung-tzhungchai?”

Another sigh. The steady pounding of burdened feet as the palanquin was hurried through Kingseat township. A whisper of silk as Han shifted, seated opposite. “I sent them to Mijak. With Sun-dao, I sent them.”

She couldn't speak for a moment. “Mijak?” she choked out at last. “My people? You sent my people to Mijak? Without asking me? Emperor Han—” Her voice failed.

“The prince of Mijak is yours?” said Han, sardonic in the darkness. “Interesting, Rhian.”

“He's under my protection!” she retorted. “You know full well what I mean. You sent them to Mijak?”

“To Icthia. To Jatharuj. But it is the same, with Icthia conquered.”

She could feel Alasdair's shock and anger, echoing her own. “You must know the difficulties I've been having with the ambassadors. Difficulties not helped by Mister Jones and Zandakar not being in Kingseat.” She could feel her fingernails biting her palms. “And you say we're allies?”

“Why, Han?” said Alasdair, gentling her with a touch. “Why would you do this? What purpose, did you hope to serve?”

“I hoped to save us,” Han said softly.

Rhian snorted. “Well, apparently you failed. You failed, and Sun-dao died, along with those other witch-men. Are you certain Dexterity and Zandakar live? You haven't killed them, too, with your foolish plan?”

“They live,” said Han. And after that said nothing else.

The palanquin's bearers carried them to the harbour, where it passed through Ambassadors' Gate without challenge. Even if it hadn't carried the insignia of the Tzhung emperor, it would not have been barred entry. Unlike ordinary ships, ambassadorial vessels were free to sail at any time of the night or day. They could not be stopped or searched without written permission from their ambassador, and access to the harbour could not be denied any member of an ambassadorial household.

Rhian felt the knowledge curdle her. If that was how Han managed to spirit Zandakar and Dexterity out of Kingseat I shall certainly revisit the question of their special treatment. When this is over. If we're still alive, of course.

Although now she knew for certain Han was a Tzhung witch-man…

Perhaps he used his mysterious powers to snatch Zandakar and Dexterity away. In which case I can rescind all the laws I like and it won't make a wretched bit of difference. I'd have to ban the Tzhung empire from Ethrea…for all the good it would do me now.

At last Han's palanquin stopped and was bumped to the ground by its bearers. Rhian shoved the leather curtain aside and climbed out, blinking in the sudden torchlight. They were right at the water's edge, beside Han's extravagant imperial boat. A second, smaller Tzhung boat bobbed on a mooring line close by, an ugly cygnet beside its elegant swan of a mother.