Star of Cursrah (31 page)

Reiver leaped clear as the two nomads doubled over and heaved. Amber recoiled from the hot stench, scuttling backward with her heels. Reiver dragged the groggy Hakiim to his feet and shoved him stumbling. Helpless, on their knees, the bandits retched painfully and long. Amber clambered to her feet, and despite a throbbing thigh, slunk away with the slow-moving Hakiim into a wide alley that promised to branch into a maze. In a moment, Reiver caught up, a crossbow, quiver, and scimitar under his arm.

Trotting, they rounded two corners, then hunkered to catch their breath. This time they watched in both directions while Hakiim rubbed his sore head and shoulder and Amber bound a bleeding wrist.

“Where did you get—” panted Amber. “The manscorpion’s stinger speared your waterskin!”

“The barb slammed me like a sling ball,” chuckled Reiver, “but I never felt a sting. I found a hole in my bota and stuck my finger in it.”

“How did you know the poison was still potent? It must be as ancient as the manscorpion itself.”

Reiver held up a finger in the dim moonlight. “My finger burned like a bee-sting,” he said, “and now those kind bandits have tested it for us.”

“Stupid and clumsy of us to blunder into them,” muttered Amber. “We should know better by now. We’re not smart enough to go adventuring.”

Reiver smirked and said, “Some of us are….”

By and by, creeping in half-steps and clinging to shadows as the moon set, the three companions neared the city center. Not far from the dry palace moat, the street dropped into a yawning pit. After a quick consult, the searchers decided to risk entry.

Holding onto Amber’s capture noose, Reiver slithered down broken paving stones as silently as a snake. With the crossbow nocked, but eschewing a torch, he probed the darkness on hands and knees, hunting traps. Amber hunched just below street level on rubble, watching till she saw spots, listening until her ears rang. Hakiim nursed a sore head, still dizzy.

Other than the distant gobble of a hyena, Cursrah seemed to sleep—above ground. Down below must be a different story. Any number of monsters could have awakened, and at the bottom dwelled the mummy.

Crouching in the darkness, thoughts whirling in her head, Amber wondered at her dogged pursuit; the irrepressible desire to know what the mummy wanted, why it singled her out for its murky message, its identity…

Even at the risk of life and limb, Amber couldn’t leave Cursrah without knowing the final fate of Amenstar, her ancient incarnation and spiritual sister. Curiosity was her curse, Amber thought, and might get her killed like the fabled cat. Her friends, whom she could never thank enough for sticking by her—

A scuffing sounded just up the street, then a musical murmur. Squeezing Hakiim’s shoulder for silence, Amber hooked back her headscarf and cupped an ear with her hand.

Silhouetted by stars, four or five nomads talked at an intersection. Two bulky raiders hung back, awaiting orders. They were mongrelmen, shunned even by their comrades, guessed Amber. A nomad waved in her direction, and she ducked instinctively. Peeking, Amber saw three bandits walking, or one shambling, toward her hiding place. Gently she urged Hakiim to slide down the paving blocks. Amber skittered after.

Lingering at the hole where Reiver had disappeared, Amber heard more mumbling. A tentative sandal scuffed up at the pit’s edge. As sure as summer sun, they’re coming down here, thought the daughter of pirates. The only good news was that the raiders didn’t know the Memnonites were also down there.

Shooing Hakiim into the dark tunnel, Amber listened behind—

—and nearly jumped out of her skin when Reiver touched her arm.

Gasping, trying not to curse, Amber grabbed back hard. The thief shook off her grip and tapped her temple. Leaning past Reiver and Hakiim, Amber listened. Down the tunnel, where Reiver had explored, flickered a yellow glow: torches, and the gutter and rumble of nomadic voices.

They were trapped between two hunting parties with no place to go.

The 383rd Anniversary of the Great Arrival

“Father, Mother, I beg you to forgive me! I was wrong—strong-headed—I know that now. Please, grant me another chance.”

Sentenced to death, or a “fate worse than death,” whatever that might be, Amenstar fell to her knees before her hard-faced parents.

Clasping her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, she beseeched them, “On the grasslands I was captured by Samir Pallaton’s cavalry. I saw Oxonsis block the Agis and cut off our water, and then I knew you were right. I realized how serious this world is, and that Cursrah was indeed endangered, so I returned of my own free will to help—”

No one listened. The sama nodded past Amenstar’s head and ordered, “Gag her!”

Cold, chemical-stained hands pinned Star’s arms. Her assailants were vizars, for no one else in the kingdom could touch a royal person. Seized by her cornrowed hair so her tiara twisted, Star was held against the musty robes of two acolytes. The vizar-in-waiting—shaven, with a branded head, in robes the color of dried blood—ordered Star’s mouth wedged open with a metal spatula. Jaw cracking, Star’s lips and then teeth were pried open.

From a jar, the vizar took a putrid-looking glop made of chopped roots, grass, and vinegar. While Star struggled against offending metal and iron hands, this disgusting poultice was jammed into her mouth.

Wanting to scream, gagging and choking, Amenstar was held, helpless, while the concoction took effect. The rancid herbs burned her palette and tongue like fire ants, made her eyes and nose water, seared her throat like acid. Just as the princess thought she’d vomit or strangle, the hands pulled away. Hacking, Star spat the stinking green mess onto her parent’s expensive rugs. She couldn’t even spit properly, but rather she drooled.

Refusing to cry, furious, Amenstar made to scream against this unheard-of abuse, yet only uttered a faint gurgle. Her tongue was numb and swollen so it crammed her mouth. Her lips felt as fat as sausages and just as insensitive.

“Dumbcane, your majesty,” hissed the vizar-in-waiting, clearly enjoying her revenge. “Another of the ‘glops’ we ‘moonstruck ghouls’ prepare, this from a grassy shoot found in the Land of the Lions. The dumbcane will paralyze your tongue for hours, rendering you mute.”

Again Amenstar tried to protest, but despite straining until tendons bulged in her throat, she only mewed like a hungry kitten. Tears of anger, sorrow, and fright coursed down the princess’s face. She couldn’t offer a word in her own defense, though no one would listen anyway. Events in the royal compound unfolded at every hand, as if the city faced invasion by hordes of barbarians or dragons. Star grew dizzy watching all the activity.

The only calm person was the bakkal, who stood with arms folded across his breast while behind him a general held upright the silver and gold war axe. Samas gave the orders, Star’s mother, the first sama, coordinating. Secretary-maids ran hither and thither. Family members were to assemble outside while many objects were packed into the cellars. Slaves and maids pulled down tapestries and lugged them down staircases. Carved and inlaid chests were stacked atop one another and ferried away. Marble statues and pots of blue faience were wrapped in exquisite rugs and wheeled on low barrows down ramps. Cedarwood boxes were packed with treasures: vases of crystalline flowers, misty-swirling dragon orbs, magic masks inlaid with eyes of lapis lazuli, necklaces of tiger teeth, brass rings, bracelets and anklets set with orange carnelian and purple amethyst. Even household items went into boxes: silver combs, platinum-framed mirrors, jeweled animal collars, gold dishes and goblets, ivory hairpins, and all were carried to the cellars. Why? Star wondered in a daze. Wouldn’t the family need these everyday tools?

Soon, with a hundred guards marching before them, the bakkal and his four wives strode down the long corridors of the family mansion into the night. Star was dragged in the rear, her arms locked by two burly vizars, her royal presence guarded by four of her father’s most brutal and fanatical guards, two men and two women who’d served the bakkal their whole lives. If ordered, Star knew, they’d execute even an eldest princess without a qualm. Never far away was the skinny, bald, and branded vizar-in-waiting.

Outside, gathered in torch-and lantern-light, milled a virtual parade of servants, drummers, trumpeters, fan-bearers, vizars, and other retainers; three hundred or more people shuffling into position for a procession. All Star’s relatives were assembled. Her siblings and half siblings who still resided in Cursrah, almost a dozen, and more cousins were there. Many of their personal servants hovered behind them. Dozens of sturdy slaves lugged the choicest chests and boxes; tons of royal wealth.

The bakkal and first sama mounted a double-wide sedan chair and were hoisted atop the shoulders of sixteen slaves. They were trailed by more guards, advisors, vizars, and servants. Next were lifted the other three samas and more retainers. In respect for her rank, Star was hoisted into her personal sedan chair. Pinned by hard hands, her wrists and ankles were gently and unobtrusively tied to the chair’s arms and legs with red velvet ropes. Unlike other royalty, Star was attended by no maids, and she wondered if they’d been dismissed or assigned elsewhere.

“Your maids were banished, samira.” The vizar-in-waiting had seen Star’s red-eyed searching and said, “Their lack of attention, allowing you to slip away, was condemned as treason, so they are not allowed to die on Cursrahn soil. All twelve were force-marched ten leagues into the southern desert. So they might never return, each woman was blinded and deafened, and they were abandoned to the jackals and lions.”

Fresh tears stung Amenstar’s eyes at this new instance of Cursrahn cruelty, even as she saw more. Cradled in the spidery hands of eight vizars, on red and blue pillows, lay pathetic bundles of fur and feathers. There lay Star’s parrots, saluqis, her ocelot, and even the precious tressym, all with eyes glazed in death.

The vizar-in-waiting cooed like a snake, “Do not despair. The animals died gently, smothered with pillows. They’ll be made mummies to serve you in the next life.”

Star closed her eyes. She didn’t want another life if, like this one, it dissolved into destruction and horror. A thunderous crash made her jump and open her eyes.

A huge cornice from the family mansion had fallen into the gardens that edged the main house. Straining against her bonds, Star peered upward. On the flat roof, torches gleamed. Teams of slaves plied pry bars and sledgehammers to loosen another cornice to crash alongside the first. Overseen by master masons and slave masters with whips, more blocks fell like meteors until the earth trembled underfoot.

To Star’s puzzled look, the vizar lisped, “The royal mansion and its many wings housed the Bakkal of Cursrah, Descendant of Genies and Highest of Calim’s Favored. Such a magnificent structure must never house lesser beings.”

A rippling crash resounded, shaking the earth, and dust billowed out the front door. A huge section of roof had collapsed on the floor within. Star thought of her personal wing, her home since infancy, that she’d fled for the grasslands and adventure. She sorrowed, knowing she’d never see it again, as it was wiped from the face of the earth.

Where, Amenstar trembled to think, would the royal family live now?

Every royal person of Cursrah was assembled and in position. Without a backward glance at their ancestral home, the bakkal and sama signaled. At the front, musicians struck drums and blew trumpets. The music was a doleful, whining discord to a drumbeat as erratic as a failing heart. A dirge, thought Amenstar, a march for the dead.

Shuffling to the mournful music, the parade entered the main street leading from the family mansion to the Palace of the Phoenix. Star strained in her sedan to see strange lights. Around the city, in several spots, flames roared out of control. Mob noises of shouting and looting resounded.

Many citizens, seeing the bakkal’s procession, flocked toward it. Cursrahns wept, moaned, prayed, and begged the bakkal for guidance. The ruler ignored them, staring straight ahead. His guards, the cream of Cursrah’s heavy infantry, cleared the commoners with spear and halberd hafts. People ran up from all directions, swamping the streets, crying or supplicating, though a few cursed the bakkal and shook their fists.

As the crowds grew, the parade faltered. Ordered by the first sama, guards knocked citizens aside. Rhinaurs and manscorpions alongside the column howled people flat. Angry cries arose, and shrieks. Still the crowd surged like a single stupid animal. People near the procession tried to back away while others pushed from behind. Ordered on, guards began to stab. Blood fountained overhead and made the cobbles slick. A prolonged wail of terror and panic welled up. Citizens fell bleeding and were trampled underfoot. The half-human giants broke necks, arms, and spines, and pitched jittering bodies to the back of the crowd, who also took to screaming.

Gradually, the slow-witted mob realized the bakkal himself had unleashed the carnage. Cursrahns yelled in fear and confusion. Betrayed, devotion turned into disloyalty and reverence became hatred. Vile names and curses were hurled. The rulers in the procession didn’t care, their faces wooden behind the wall of brutal guards. By sheer force, as the crowd surged and receded and died at the edges, the parade crept onto a bridge leading to the palace. Guards jammed behind, shoulder to shoulder, to block commoners from following. Deserted, the abused crowd jeered, shrieked, prayed to various gods, and wept.

Stunned, almost numb to the cruelty, Amenstar yet noted that the palace moat had run dry. By the flickering light of torches, she saw only a few greasy puddles. Otherwise the moat was choked with slime, mud, dying fish, and trash. Just before the parade passed into the palace, Amenstar looked up. More slaves with heavy tools waited along the roofline. Even the palace would be leveled, she thought bitterly. If her parents planned some ethereal future life, they’d have precious few buildings to house them.

With the doors thrown wide, the procession tramped into the palace, along the wide corridor to the huge royal court, the Chamber of the Moon with its round-cut ceiling.