Hammer Of God (52 page)

“I don't know,” she said, musing. “Is there a feminine version of the Tzhung name Han?”

So nearly she surprised him into laughter. “Hanyi.”

“Then perhaps I shall call my daughter Hanyi,” said Rhian. “If I have a daughter. If I don't die soon.”

Zandakar hissed between his teeth. “Rhian wei die.”

“We might all die, Zandakar,” Rhian said, so solemn again. “As Helfred says, God makes us no promises.”

Voolksyn the ambassador was now speaking with his brother. The Slainta Dalsyn was listening, his head low, one large hand gripping Voolksyn's shoulder. He nodded once. He nodded again. His head came up, and with a sweep of his arm, some short sharp words, he sent away his huddled Harbisland petitioners. Then he beckoned, frowning.

“Well,” said Rhian, her chin tilting and her shoulders pulling back. “Time to see if our gamble has paid off.”

Together they approached Dalsyn. Zandakar walked lightly, like a man poised to fight. Voolksyn was standing aside, his face giving nothing away. The slainta's clansmen held their cudgels at the ready. Their faces were easy to read: anger and suspicion and some lust for Rhian.

“So this is the little Queen of Ethrea,” said Dalsyn, in Ethrean. His tone was guttural, his accent pronounced.

“Come uninvited to your court, great Slainta,” said Rhian. “For which I apologise, but my need is great.”

“This my brother tells me,” said Dalsyn, eyes narrow with suspicion. “He tells me you speak the truth.”

“If you ask without asking whether Rhian of Ethrea has never told a lie, I do not lie. I have. But not about Mijak. Every word I've told your brother the ambassador, everything I will say to you now, is the truth.”

Dalsyn nodded, and looked at Zandakar. “Here is a man who brings a naked knife before me. Does this man desire to die?”

“Tcha,” said Rhian, her finger lightly on Zandakar's arm. “I stand here with a blade on my hip, Slainta. Will your men cudgel me too? Zandakar means you no harm.”

“I am to trust you?”

“You are the slainta. I am a queen. Rulers have honour, or so I am taught. We are treatied, you and I. We are bound like brother and sister.”

Dalsyn tugged his long, plaited beard. He had a hard face to read. “Zandakar,” he said. “A man with blue hair.”

“A man of Mijak,” said Rhian. “A godsent man, Slainta. Listen to what he has to say.”

“And he says what?” said Dalsyn. “This man with blue hair.”

“Believe Rhian hushla,” said Zandakar simply. “Mijak comes. Mijak kills.”

“You are Mijak,” said Dalsyn. “Do you kill?”

Zandakar nodded. “Zho. Before Ethrea, I kill for Mijak.”

“And who do you kill for now?”

“Rhian.”

“Hmm,” said the slainta, his green eyes lively with thought. His gaze shifted. “And here is Emperor Han. Another ruler uninvited.”

Han nodded to Dalsyn. “But required.”

Dalsyn smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “The pride of Tzhung-tzhungchai is legend in Harbisland.”

“The courage of Harbisland is legend in Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

As Dalsyn hissed, suspecting a hidden insult, his clansmen stepped forward, their cudgels raised. Though he was cold, and shivering, and exhausted from witching so far to Harbisland, Han readied himself to fight. Beside him, he heard Rhian curse softly.

“God save me from men,” she said. “Zandakar? Now!”

Zandakar, the warrior from Mijak, pointed his knife blade into the air. A stream of blue fire sizzled through the falling rain. The fresh air stank of cold stone, burning.

Dalsyn's clansmen dropped their cudgels and fell face-first into the rainwashed grass. The Slainta of Harbisland and Voolksyn, his brother, lost their colour until they looked like ice. But neither man flinched or cried out.

Han was impressed.

“Slainta,” said Rhian as blue fire seared the rainy air. “Your brother has told you of Mijak. Here is its brutal power. He has told you of Icthia, and Han, and his witch-men. We are treatied, you and I. Now I come to you asking that you honour that treaty. Help me defend Ethrea. And in defending Ethrea, save yourself.”

“And Tzhung-tzhungchai?” said the Slainta Dalsyn. “What is Emperor Han to you?”

“An ally,” said Rhian. “As you are.”

Dalsyn sat back on his sealskin throne. “To Harbisland, the Tzhung are enemies time out of mind.”

“Then you can die as enemies,” said Rhian. “At the hands of merciless Mijak.” The blood on her cheeks was almost washed away, so the wounds she had given herself were clearly defined. “Or you can live as enemies who put aside their quarrels long enough to see this merciless enemy defeated. Is your pride more important than your life, Slainta? Is it more important than the lives of your people?”

Han saw Rhian's challenge flick Dalsyn keenly, like a whip. She touched Zandakar's arm, and the warrior killed the blue fire. As the slainta's clansmen climbed churlish to their feet, she approached Dalsyn and dropped to one knee on the wet grass before him. The rain fell on her cropped hair, her gold circlet, her close-fitting leathers.

“Dalsyn,” she said, “when has Ethrea betrayed you? When has Ethrea broken its word? In this place, I am Ethrea. I give you my word, Emperor Han of the Tzhung answers to me. Every trading nation treatied with Ethrea answers to me. Any trading nation who uses this calamity to hurt a sister nation, that nation shall be cast out of Ethrea forever. That is our new treaty. That is Ethrea's pledge to you.” She touched her fingers to her wounded face. “I shed my blood before your ambassador. I swore him a blood-oath to die for Harbisland in battle. I'll bleed again here and now, for you, if that will convince you to trust me. If that will convince you to give me ships for our armada, and soldiers to fight in Ethrea if our armada should fail.”

Jewelled with raindrops, Dalsyn considered her. One thick, callused finger stroked his rainsoaked moustache. “My dreamers dream of a bloodthirsty horde,” he said. “They dream of us fighting together. The mother is worried for her children in Harbisland.” His stroking finger pointed. “Let Han bleed for me, and what you want, I give.”

Han clasped his hands tightly as Rhian slewed round to stare at him. “Han? No, Slainta, you can't ask—”

Dalsyn stood, towering over her, taller even than his tall brother. His clansmen gripped their cudgels tighter – one word would loose them to bludgeon and kill. “I can't?” said the slainta. “In my land, in my court, in the eyes of my mother, when you come to me begging, when you beg for Harbisland's blood? I can't?”

Rhian did not turn back at his angry words. Her eyes in her wounded face were so large, so blue. Han saw there the question she would not ask. The favour she would not beg. He saw in her eyes the death of Ethrea.

And the wind blew through him, stealing his breath. Shattering his resistance. Whispering its desire.

“Zandakar,” he said. “Give me your knife.”

The warrior from Mijak gave him the scorpion blade. As his fingers closed around it, he heard the wind howl, he heard the wind's pain as the Mijaki's power seared and sang in his blood.

With the fingers of one hand he unbuttoned his sodden silk tunic and bared his tattooed chest to the rain and the cold and the avid stare of the Slainta, Dalsyn. He drew the edge of Zandakar's knife across his left breast, above his heart, and bled for Harbisland. For Ethrea. For Rhian.

The Queen of Ethrea wept for him, bleeding.

“Ha,” said Dalsyn, smiling, as his brother the ambassador choked on his surprise. “Tzhung-tzhungchai bleeds.”

Rhian leapt to her feet. “It pleases you, to see him bleeding? This man who will help your people to live? Shame on you, Slainta! Shame on you for a base man. Is this the teaching of your mother, to smile when a man bleeds for you?”

If she had struck him, Dalsyn could not look more surprised. “What do you know of it? Are you Harbisland, with its history, with its past? Tzhung-tzhungchai—”

“Is not the enemy here!” she shouted. “Are you the enemy? You said let Han bleed and I can have what I want. See Han before you, Slainta, bleeding. Is your word worth nothing? Must I battle you and Mijak both?”

“No,” said Dalsyn, eyes slitted. “My word is true. Ethrea will have ships and warriors of Harbisland against this Mijak.”

“The witch-men of Tzhung are needed to create our armada,” said Rhian. “They must come here. Ethrea pledges no danger to Harbisland. Ethrea stands surety for Tzhung-tzhungchai in this. Is Ethrea's word sufficient?”

“Ethrea has never betrayed us,” Dalsyn said, grudgingly. “This one time, the Tzhung can come.”

“And will you come with us to see the Count of Arbenia?” she said. “You and Voolksyn, with Han, Zandakar and me. We need the ships of Arbenia, Dalsyn. We need ships from every treatied trading nation. Those lesser nations beholden to you, they'll follow your lead in this. And so will the count. I need him and the lesser nations he can influence. And even then…” She took a deep breath. “Victory is not assured. But I can promise you, I do promise you, that without them defeat is inevitable.”

Dalsyn nodded, then looked at Zandakar. “You pledge surety for Tzhung-tzhungchai. The blue-haired man?”

“Zandakar has bled for me,” she said. “He fights for me. He'll die for me. Are you saying you want to see him bleed, too?”

Dalsyn smoothed the length of his plaited red beard. “If I asked?”

“You, Slainta,” said Zandakar. “You ask. I bleed.” Looking sideways, he held out his hand.

As Rhian clenched her fists, Han gave the scorpion knife back to Zandakar. Dalsyn leaned forward, his green eyes eager. Zandakar pushed his sleeve back and poised the blade above his arm. Han saw a pale scar there already.

“Slainta,” said Zandakar. “You want blood, I bleed, zho?”

Now Dalsyn looked baffled. Elbows resting on his thighs, fingers laced to white knuckles, bearded chin thrust forward, he stared at Rhian as the rain fell on his face and his sealskin clothes.

“What are you, girl?” he demanded. “Are you a witch? A sorceress? Han of Tzhung-tzhungchai bleeds for you. The man with blue hair, Zandakar of Mijak, his knife is ready. You call blood from men like the mother calls her rain.”

Han saw Rhian's head lift at that, as though Dalsyn's words had cut her. “Slainta, I'm not a witch. I'm not a sorceress. I'm a girl called to serve her kingdom. To serve God, and all the good men in this world.”

“Hmm,” said Dalsyn. Then he leaned back again, and flicked a careless finger. “Withdraw. The slainta speaks with his ambassador and his clansmen.”

Han met her gaze steadily as she joined him and Zandakar. “You spoke well to the slainta, Majesty,” he said quietly. “You are a worthy queen.”

“Oh, Han,” she whispered. “I had no idea he'd demand that you—” She let her air hiss between her teeth. “Why did you do it?”

He glanced down at the open wound in his chest, then at her cut face. “Why did you?”

“Dalsyn's right,” she said, not answering that. So much pain behind her self-control. “I make men bleed. How many men and women will shed their blood before this is over, because I asked it of them?”

“Tcha, hushla,” said Zandakar. “You queen, they serve, zho?”

Han nodded. “He's right. This is war, Rhian. War is blood.”

“And it's too late to turn back now, I know,” she said, glowering. “But that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“Ethrea!” called Dalsyn. “Come. There is an answer.”

In the softening rain, Rhian's cropped hair curled even tighter. Her eyes shone an even brigher blue. The wounds in her cheeks had started to swell. Pain danced behind the strength in her face. Turning on her heel, she walked back to Dalsyn, tall and proud upon his sealskin throne.

Han glanced at Zandakar, and together they joined her.

The slainta's clansmen stood around him, cudgels held against their sealskin chests. Voolksyn, the ambassador, his brother, stood by the slainta's right hand.

“Ethrea,” he said, “we are treatied like brother to sister. We are treated for many of the mother's seasons. Ethrea keeps its word. You speak for the Tzhung, you say they can be trusted. I trust your word – until you break it.” He leaned forward, and suddenly his green eyes were malevolent. “Ethrea breaks word…Harbisland breaks Ethrea.”

“Harbisland will never break Ethrea,” said Rhian. “For Ethrea's word is constant, like the sun.”

Dalsyn nodded to his clansmen, and said something swift in guttural Harbish. Then he stood, and stepped away from his throne. Voolksyn stepped with him.

“Han of Tzhung,” he said. His voice was calm, but fear lurked in his eyes. “Take us to the Count of Arbenia.”

Banishing exhaustion, banishing pain, Han closed his eyes and called on the wind. He wrapped it around them, feeling his bones groan, his blood weep…

… Harbisland vanished. They walked in the wind.

Standing in one corner of the castle's Grand Ballroom, Dexterity considered the trading nations' ambassadors. Most of them clustered around the hastily prepared trestle tables that were laden with food scoured from the kitchens. By some kind of miracle, they'd answered Alasdair's cryptic summons. Even Gutten had come. Athnïj, too, though in many ways that was a pity.

He's looking dreadful, poor man. I wish he'd stop staring at me, Hettie. I can't tell him anything. It's not my place.

He glanced up at the ornate clock, built so cunningly into the frescoed ceiling, then sidled inconspicuously over to the king.

“Your Majesty. It's been well over four hours, and we've no idea when Rhian – I mean, Her Majesty – will return. I'm not certain how much longer we can keep them here, if for no other reason than they've eaten more than their fill and drunk copious draughts of wine. Surely, quite soon now, nature must take its course.”

“He's right,” said Duke Edward, shamelessly eavesdropping. “We'll have a riot on our hands soon, especially since we can't answer one of their questions. And it's not as if we can call in Idson, either. We want these men for allies, not enemies.”

“I know it's awkward, but I want to detain them just a little while longer,” said Alasdair. “I want to give Her Majesty all the help I can.”

Duke Edward grunted. “To my mind you'd be better off getting Helfred to start praying.”

Dexterity saw the fear flash across Alasdair's face, and could have kicked the thoughtless duke. “Majesty, I have travelled with witch-men, remember?” he said, as firmly as he could without seeming to chastise Edward. “I came to no harm. Her Majesty is quite safe.” He nearly continued, “And don't forget she has Zandakar with her.” But that might not be as reassuring as he wanted it to sound. “God will protect her, Majesty.”

Alasdair nodded, but he didn't look convinced. “What hope does she have, I wonder, of convincing Harbisland's slainta? What if he looks on her unannounced arrival as a deadly insult? What if he attempts to arrest her, or worse? What if—”

“Come now, Majesty, you mustn't work yourself up like this,” Dexterity said quickly. “Remember what our prolate said? We must have faith.”

“Faith,” said Alasdair. It was almost a sigh. “My faith has been more tested since Eberg's death than in all the years of my life before it. I swear, I begin to think—”

A cold wind, swirling. A tang of pine and salt water. A splatter of rain, falling beneath the ballroom's ceiling. Rhian stepped out of the unseen air with five men in tow.

Every sibilant conversation died.

Dexterity watched as Alasdair broke the frozen moment, walking across the parquetry floor to greet his wife. He halted before her, and bowed his head.

“Majesty. God be thanked for your safe return.”

“Yes,” said Rhian. She sounded faint, as though exhausted, or overcome with pain. The self-inflicted wounds in her cheeks were savage. “It was a fruitful endeavour.”

Han and Zandakar had stepped aside, and so did Voolksyn, allowing the rulers of Harbisland and Arbenia to occupy the centre of attention. Dexterity thought Tzhung's emperor looked even more exhausted than Rhian. Han's battle with the trade winds and his grief over losing Sun-dao had already taxed his strength; what it had cost him to travel so far in the wind, with so many others…

Frankly, Hettie, I don't want to think.

Rhian stood straight and tall, calling upon some hidden reserves to keep her from appearing weak before so many vital men. “King Alasdair, I present to you Dalsyn, the Slainta of Harbisland, and Count Ebrich of Arbenia. Welcome allies in the fight against Mijak.”

As the dukes and Helfred murmured, and the ambassadors stared, even Sere Gutten struck dumb with surprise, Dexterity folded his arms and hugged himself tight.

Oh, Hettie. She's done it. Our girl's done it, my love.

“Your excellencies,” said Alasdair. “Welcome to Ethrea. It is an honour to receive you, and a sadness that calamity must be the cause.”

“King,” said the slainta, staring down from his great height. “Your little queen is mighty.”

“She is,” said Alasdair. “All of Ethrea lives in her heart.”

Like Gutten, the Count of Arbenia was wrapped in bearskin, and like his ambassador he was squat and aggressive. “We must talk,” Ebrich announced, as though he declared war.

Rhian nodded. “Agreed. We've no time to waste.”

“I think we'll acquit ourselves most comfortably here, Majesty,” said Alasdair. “And while your council oversees the transformation of this ballroom into a chamber of war, might I suggest you have your wounds tended?”

Dexterity stepped forward. “Can I offer my ser-vices, Majesty? No guarantees, of course, but—”

“No,” said Rhian flatly. “When you heal you leave no memory of the wound, Mister Jones. There is value in a scar, I've found.”

“Then allow me to escort you to Ursa,” he replied. “And she can stitch you as untidily as you please.”

“Very well. One moment—”

While Rhian had swift, private words with Emperor Han, and the king consulted with Helfred and the dukes, Arbenia's count and his unpleasant ambassador drew aside to converse. The ambassadors of Icthia, Slynt and Dev'karesh, with ties to Harbisland, gathered round the slainta and Voolksyn to hear their low-voiced opinions. The Barbruish and Keldravian ambassadors, beholden to Arbenia but excluded from consultation, milled like twin sheep bereft of their shepherd.

Ambassador Lai stood alone, his dark gaze resting on his emperor. Not even his exquisitely polished public mask could successfully hide that he was deeply worried.