Legacy of Kings (51 page)

One of the other merchants drew in a sharp breath. Nasaan looked at him. He was a tall, thin man with narrow features, someone Nasaan had never seen before.

“Begging your pardon,” the man said, when he saw that the Prince’s eyes were upon him, “but that is exactly the problem.”

“And you are who?”

The merchant stiffened. “Duat et-Ahal, your Highness.”

“Well, then, Duat et-Ahal, tell me. Clearly my witches are strong, and clearly they’re able to hold this sickness at bay. Anyone who is willing to accept my protection need only ask for it. So Jezalya is safe, and all the people in it are secure. Why is that a problem for you?”

“Sire, Jezalya may be safe, but it’s her connection to other cities that makes her great. Without trade caravans to bring the wealth of the world to her gates she would wither away and die. And if the masters of those caravans hear that there’s a terrible wasting disease running rampant in this region, and that until they reach your gates they will not be safe from it, they will take their goods and go elsewhere.”

“That would be a foolish move,” Nasaan suggested, “as there are no other major trade routes within a hundred miles of here. Surely the Great Families would suffer.”

The merchants looked at one another. Finally one ventured, “Highness, the elders of my family are already talking about abandoning our traditional rounds, even if it costs us business in the short run. Having a buyer for your goods means little if the seller dies before the sale can be concluded.”

“That’s why we came here today,” Sarosh told him. “To tell you about what was being planned, so that you would have time to address the problem.”

Nasaan raised an eyebrow. “What do you recommend I do?”

For a moment there was silence. Not the simple absence of sound, but something more significant: a tangible sense that certain specific things were deliberately not being said.

“You have witches at your disposal,” Sarosh said finally. “And other resources as well, I’m sure. If your people are strong enough to protect a city like Jezalya, then surely they can do more than that. Have them seek out the heart of the disease, even if it’s outside your walls, and eradicate it. Yes, that will benefit some people who haven’t yet sworn allegiance to you, but it will also prove you to be a magnanimous prince, worthy of men’s allegiance in the future.” He paused. “Jezalya needs this, your Highness.”

“As do we,” et-Ahal added.

Ah,
Nasaan thought darkly,
but it is not all as simple as asking a witch to perform a healing spell.

“What kind of time frame are we talking about?” he asked.

“If the Sleep appears in Bandezek, the caravan activity in this region will cease immediately. On this all the Great Families are agreed. Otherwise . . . .” Sarosh looked at the other merchants before answering, waiting for a subtle signal of assent from each. “It depends on how much time the Families spend discussing this matter. Which in turn depends upon how much we, as your advocates, genuinely believe that the situation might improve.”

Nasaan nodded tightly. “I understand.” He looked at them one by one, making eye contact with each. He hoped he looked more optimistic than he felt. “Then I hope your discussions take a while. In the meantime, I’ll talk to my witches about what can be done to address the situation.”

Sarosh bowed his head. “Thank you, Highness.”

Nasaan stood. It was hard to look calm and confident when inside his head there was a storm of conflicting emotions; he wondered if such dissembling would ever come naturally to him. “I’m grateful to you all for coming here today. Grateful for your counsel. Such consideration from the Great Families will not be forgotten.”

They bowed respectfully one by one, saying the kind of things that must be said in order to take proper leave of a prince. But he wasn’t really listening to them anymore. His mind was elsewhere.

When they were finally gone—when the doors of the chamber had closed behind them, and their footsteps had faded out of hearing beyond it—a figure slipped out from behind a carved wooden screen.

“You heard,” Nasaan said quietly.

“I heard,” Siderea confirmed.

“Am I correct in guessing that you have more to do with this situation than simply
protecting Jezalya
?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Has your territory not doubled since you claimed the throne?” she asked. “Do the tribes not turn to you for protection?”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“True, my Prince.” Her voice was like liquid silver, but for once it lacked the power to move him. “Do you really want to hear the answer?”

He shut his eyes. Not until he was sure his voice would be steady did he speak. “The strategies that once served this city now threaten it.”

“Are you so sure of that?”

He glared at her. “I seem to recall the authority here was mine?”

She spread her hands. Delicate rings glittered on every finger. “Things have been set in motion. It’s not easy to change them so late in the game.”

“Then it will be difficult,” he snapped. Suddenly out of patience with the whole situation. “Or are you telling me you’re not up to the challenge?”

Something flashed in her eyes that was neither sycophancy nor seduction; he found it oddly refreshing. “I’m saying the matter isn’t as simple as curing a handful of sick peasants. There’s a reason for what’s happening out in the desert. I can’t just make it all go away.”

“Then change something!” he ordered her, all his frustration welling up inside him suddenly, then pouring out with numbing force. “Change where the disease strikes! Change who it affects! There are hundreds of nomads out there in the desert who will never be seen by anyone save camels and vultures. No one cares if
they
get sick. No one will notice if a camp full of them disappears tomorrow. So whatever it is you’re doing right outside my city—and you’re right, I don’t want to know what it is—take it to them. Or somewhere else.” He struck out suddenly, slamming his fist into a nearby table. “
Anywhere but here!
”

He turned away from her, breathing deeply. A part of him recognized just how unreasonable he was being. This
djira
had helped him claim his throne. She had brought several fiercely independent tribes to his side and frustrated others who might have opposed him. It was the height of hypocrisy to condemn her methods now, when he had been so happy to applaud them earlier.

But conditions change,
he thought.
Strategies must adapt. That is the way of war.

“I will do what I can,” she said.

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He had always wondered what would happen if his agenda and hers ceased to coincide. Whether she would accept his authority over her, in that case. Apparently so.

At least for now.

“See to Bandezek,” he ordered her. “Protect its people the way you would protect mine. Jezalya will pay a heavy price if that place burns.”

“I will not let it burn,” she promised him.

Back when they had first discussed the terms of their bargain, she had told him that if the day came when he no longer valued her counsel, she would leave him. But she had made no promise to leave Jezalya altogether. More likely she would target Nasaan’s city the way she was now targeting the nomads, to punish him for his rejection. The
djiri
were not known for their forgiving natures.

This would be good enough, he told himself. It would
have
to be good enough. At least for now.

He left without looking back at her.

The House of Gods was illuminated by two dozen immense oil lamps suspended from the ceiling, and their flames sent drops of light dancing along the gleaming surfaces of metal, jeweled, and polished stone idols, lending them an almost animated aspect. It was easy to believe there were spirits active in such a place and that the gods would take a special interest in protecting the city that housed them.

A statue of Alwat stood at the far end of the chamber. Nasaan could feel the power of the war god’s presence as he walked up to face it. This was his patron deity, the god who had inspired him to dream of conquest back when he had been no more than a simple warrior. It was Alwat who had taught him to hunger for power, Alwat who had pointed him to Jezalya, Alwat who had urged him to claim this city for his own.

Alwat who had witnessed his bargain with the
djira
.

He heard footsteps come up behind him. He did not turn around. “Tell me,” he said. “Spare me nothing.”

Sarosh came up beside him. “There are some who whisper that your Lady Consort is a demon. And not some minor sand spirit, either, neatly bound to your service. Something even darker than a
djira
, with a purpose all its own. It’s been suggested that the sickness outside the city comes from her. That she visits disease upon the tribes for her own purposes and cares nothing for Jezalya.” He paused. “Or for you.”

Anger and frustration welled up inside Nasaan, and since there was nothing in the room that he could break without earning the wrath of one god or another, he had a sudden mad impulse to strike at Sarosh. As if the merchant were responsible for the mess he was currently in.

“None of that is true,” he growled. Forcing the moment’s anger to subside.

“With all due respect, Highness . . . the truth does not matter. Gossip has a power all its own.”

Yes,
Nasaan thought darkly. He remembered the rumors he himself had spread prior to his conquest of Jezalya, which had helped topple the former prince from power.
And it can be a dangerous tool in the hands of one’s enemies.

With a snort of frustration he turned back to face Alwat. The god’s eyes shimmered in the lamplight like living orbs, watching him. Was all this Nasaan’s reward for trusting a war god to guide him? After all, from a purely military standpoint, his
djira
had done nothing wrong. Men feared him. His army was growing. Soon he would be ready to send his army out across the sands to expand his empire. It was everything he had prayed to Alwat for, everything his
djira
had promised to provide.

One could not expect a god of war to give a rat’s ass about commerce. Or gossip.

Yet both can be as powerful as the sword,
he thought soberly.
And both can bring down an empire.

“I’m sorry,” Sarosh muttered.

“Don’t be. I pay you bribes so you’ll tell me the truth.”

“There are also rumors of dark creatures circling this city, out beyond the view of the watch. I’m not sure if anyone has actually seen one, but the nomads are convinced they’re there. Sickness is said to follow in their wake.”

Nasaan’s chest tightened. “Winged creatures?”

“Yes.”

He remembered the thing he had seen on the battlefield the night he claimed Jezalya. Black-winged, immense, and clearly not a natural creature. Were there more of its kind out there? If so, what was their relationship to his
djira
? Were they her allies? Her servants? Or something even more alarming? He was suddenly acutely aware of how far out of his element he was. He needed a priest to help him sort it all out. But there was no priest that he trusted enough to share this with.

“The merchants speak of these creatures?”

“Not yet. Only the nomads.” He paused. “But that will change, if this goes on long enough. And if the tribes panic—
when
they panic . . . “ He let the word trail off meaningfully.

Then there will be chaos,
Nasaan thought.
And the gods may well decide to strike down the one who brought it to their doorstep.

Drawing in a deep breath, he tried to settle the storm of frustration in his gut. Or at least to look as if he had settled it. Reaching to his belt, he nodded stiffly. “I understand, Sarosh. Thank you. Your counsel is valuable to me, as always.”

He pulled a small purse loose from his belt and handed it to him. The merchant did not look inside as he took it, but weighed it briefly in his palm and was apparently pleased by the results. “It is an honor to serve such a generous prince,” he said, bowing his head respectfully.

He turned and headed toward the entrance. Nasaan listened to his footsteps receding for a moment, then said, “Sarosh.”

The footsteps stopped.

“Bandezek will be safe from this plague.”

There was a pause. “Our families will be glad to hear that, your Highness.”

Then the footsteps passed over the threshold, leaving Nasaan alone with his gods.

Chapter 30

T

HE MAP was in eight pieces, and each one had been folded several times. Even with rocks holding down the corners it was hard to keep them all flat. How little sorcery would it have taken to flatten them out? Or to bind the pieces together into a cohesive whole? Though Colivar once might have disdained Salvator for his stubborn refusal to accept the use of sorcery, these days, with the spirit of a Souleater clawing at his own soul from the inside, he did not view Penitent beliefs in quite the same light.