The Assassin King (21 page)

“Excellent choice,” said the regent, watching Fhremus over the rim of his own glass. “Argaut has many excellent distilleries. I hope you enjoy it.” “Thank you, m'lord.” Talquist leaned closer. “Yes, Fhremus, I am alive and whole, in spite of any rumors to the contrary.”

The commander smiled nervously. “I am glad to see that, m'lord.” The regent settled down more comfortably in his chair. “I have always admired your devotion to the nation and the crown, Fhremus,” he said, inhaling the bouquet of the brandy. “I was greatly impressed at your wisdom during the Colloquium following the empress's death in insisting that the empire remain united, especially in the face of the lobbying by the counts of the larger provinces to disband both the empire and the army. I will never forget what you said at that meeting, that 'the might of the Sorbold army comes from two factors— commonality of purpose and love of our native land.'” The soldier nodded and sipped his drink.

“That wisdom is about to be proven more than anyone could have envisioned,” said Talquist seriously. “I want you to speak freely to me, Fhremus, without fear of reprisal, not soldier to emperor, but Sorbold to Sorbold. What is most common between you and I is a deep love of our nation. That nation is under dire threat, a threat that must be met with force, swiftly and overwhelmingly. If we delay or do nothing, we will lose any advantage that our terrain and military might would have given us in what will be a battle for our very survival.”

The supreme commander blinked. “Threat? What threat?” He stared at the regent. “I just reviewed all the reports of the field commanders from every one of the twenty-seven city-states, and there has been no hostile activity reported in three months—none since the empress's death, in fact. It would seem that the Alliance is concentrating on farming and securing the trade routes, with a minimum of military buildup. Roland appears peaceful, and there have been no sightings of Bolg outside the mountains of Ylorc. And, of course, the Lirin of Tyrian are keeping to themselves, as always. We are at peace.”

“So it might seem,” agreed Talquist, taking another sip and straining it through his back teeth.

“But you forget, Fhremus, that prior to being chosen as emperor by the Scales, I was hi-erarch of the Western Mercantile, and so my information comes not only from within the continent, but from outside it.” “And there are indications that we are under threat of invasion?” The soldier's demeanor changed subtly; his muscles tensed and his spine straightened, while his eyes took on a gleam in the light of the afternoon sun spilling into the room from the balcony.

“If left unchecked, it will lead to that,” said Talquist. "But consider the geography of the continent. You have to look at this land as the Creator fashioned it, rather than as it was divided by man, the result of the Cymrian War four hundred years ago, and then perhaps you can see what the Creator intended for it.

"Sorbold is the foundation of the entire continent in the south, granted divine protection by the Creator in the form of forbidding mountains and implacable deserts, a vast expanse of territory and a large population that is tempered in the sun, strong and relentless and proud.

Our willingness for centuries to maintain our military and our defensive infrastructure has given us the upper hand from a tactical standpoint. Even our inland seacoast is protected, for the most part, by the land mass that surrounds it. We have outposts at the water's edge from the Nonaligned States to the Skeleton Coast, outposts that incoming ships must pass in order to land in port. So we are a formidable, almost unassailable opponent under normal circumstances."

The commander nodded; the regent had just provided the same assessment he would have himself, and it was a case for limited worry.

“The Middle Continent in the west, comprised of Tyrian, Roland, and Gwynwood, is the breadbasket of this part of the world,” Talquist continued. “Its geography of wide plains, forests, and fields gives it some natural defense, but few places from which to launch an offensive strike. Only the forested realm of Tyrian is close enough to one of our city-states to mass an invasion without detection. And the Firbolg king on our border to the east shares the same defensive mountains that guard our north—he could mass an army of invasion, but without support from Roland we would likely be able to repel it easily.”

Again Fhremus nodded, and again he made silent note of his assessment.

'To the north lies the Hintervold, and it, as you know, is an icy wasteland only inhabitable in part, and only in part of the year. It is a treasure trove of skins and ore and gold, of peat for fuel, with a short but intense growing season that produces a small harvest of vegetables of massive size, but cannot feed itself through its own agriculture. Without the food Roland provides to it, the Hintervold would be even more barren than it already is. In short, this continent was meant to be one empire, ruled and defended by the south, fed by the middle, with pelts harvested and gold mined from the north to feed the trade stream. Alas, the wars of our ancestors have left us divided.“ ”But allied, at least," said Fhremus.

Talquist's face lost some of its pleasant aspect. “We are friends to the Cymrian Alliance, but not a part of it,” he said shortly, his tone causing the hairs on Fhremus's neck to stand up. “We are also friends of the Hintervold and of Golgarn, on the Bolg king's southeastern border, but no official alliance exists between Sorbold and those nations, either. That is about to change.”

Fhremus sat forward in shock. “We are about to enter into a treaty with the Hintervold and Golgarn?” he asked incredulously. “Those three nations ring the Middle Continent on all sides. Won't that be seen as a threat by the Alliance?”

The regent smiled humorously. “It might, if they knew about it. But what I am telling you, Fhremus, is that our generous friendship and trading practices have lulled the Alliance into believing that we are vulnerable. They believe, as the Creator did, that this continent should be united as one empire. The only difference is that they believe they should be in control of it.” All the sound suddenly left the room save for that of the warm wind at the balcony.

“And while they know they are no match for us militarily and strategically,” Talquist continued after a moment, “the Alliance has moved ahead with acquiring weapons that they feel will give them enough advantage to start a war.”

“What sort of weapons?” asked Fhremus nervously. He put down the glass; the alcohol was irritating his throat, rather than soothing it. Everything the man who would shortly be emperor was telling him was counterintuitive to what his instincts said, but he knew the look in Talquist's eye, and therefore knew better than to question the knowledge of someone with a spy in every doorway the world over. Talquist pulled his chair closer. “Bear this in mind, Fhremus,” he said, swirling the remains of his brandy in the glass, then putting it down on the table. “The man who leads that Alliance has more than one sort of power. Gwydion of Manosse is the grandson of Gwylliam the Visionary, the man who carved one of the most advanced nations in history from solid rock. His uncle is Edwyn Griffyth, the high Sea Mage of Gaematria, Gwylliam's son, probably the best inventor in the Known World. As a result, he has at his disposal some of the most ingenious mechanical designs ever developed. He is allied with Achmed, the Firbolg king, whose unique and impressively deadly weapons we have already seen hints of through subterfuge, since the king refuses to sell them to us. Why do you think that might be? Why would the Bolg king trade arms to the Alliance, but not to Sorbold?”

Talquist watched Fhremus silently absorb the implication, then went to his desk and returned with a large piece of parchment that he laid in front of the commander. On it was a detailed sketch of a heavy machine fashioned in metal, with footpads that interlocked with gears and upright supports.

“One of our spies at the docks of Avonderre sent this quite a few months back. It was being off-loaded at Port Fallon, in from Gaematria and bound, by cart, to Haguefort, where the Lord Cymrian currently resides.” “What is it?” Fhremus asked, studying the schematic.

Talquist was watching him intently. “It's a walking machine, apparently,” he said, picking up his glass and inhaling the aroma, men setting it down again.

Fhremus nodded. “Perhaps for Anborn, the Lord Marshal of the Great War,” he said. “He is lame—and Edwyn Griffyth is his brother. No doubt Anborn's brother is seeking to help him recover the use of his legs, or at least some mobility.” “No doubt,” Talquist agreed. “But why do you suppose that the Lord Cymrian ordered the supplies to build five hundred thousand of them?” Fhremus looked up from the parchment. “Do you imagine that there are a half million cripples in Roland?” “Five hundred thousand?' Talquist smiled grimly. ”I've seen some of the manifests of the ships arriving every day from Manosse and Gaematria. If this is revealed in the few I've seen, imagine what else he is importing, and to what end?" He watched Fhremus carefully, looking to see if his own lie had been detected, but the soldier was not observing him. The commander tossed the parchment sheet into the center of the table.

“I can't imagine, but I hardly think that machines to allow lame men to walk need give the army of Sorbold cause for alarm.” “On their own, you are correct,” said Talquist patiently.

“But think more broadly, Fhremus. Consider with whom the Lord Cymrian is allied, and what you know of his activities. Not long ago, the entire top of one of the inner peaks of the Teeth exploded—all of the Western Command felt the reverberations. A mountain peak, Fhremus—it was not a volcano, no lava flow was reported. Do you have any idea of the power required to blow a mountain peak into shards?” Fhremus didn't, but he understood the implication. 'The Bolg king is developing powerful explosives,“ he said, ”and so are we. I don't understand what that has to do with the mechanical walkers for the lame, m'lord."

Talquist's smile became cruel. “It disturbs me that the commander of the entire nation's army cannot put pieces together better than that, Fhremus. Think back for a moment; you returned to Jierna'sid at great haste not in response to my summons, but because of what you had heard in the streets—is that not so?” The commander's face went rigid.

“That's all right, Fhremus—if I were you, and had been informed that the regent emperor had been the target of a titanic stone assassin, a statue twice as tall as a man that moved under its own power, and had destroyed half a brigade as it waded through them on its way into Jierna Tal, I would have come in all due haste as well. I assume you have seen the carnage firsthand; although the streets had been cleansed of the human litter by the time you arrived, you must have seen the shattered carts, the broken gates, yes?” He gestured to the newly repaired wall in the staircase leading up to the southwestern parapet.

“Yes,” said the commander. “Touched as I am by your concern for my well-being, I am happy to assure you that not a hair on my head was harmed. Would that I could say the same for the eighty-eight troops and uncounted bystanders.”

“How—” The regent raised a hand, and the soldier lapsed into silence. “I thought by now you knew that my ascension to emperor was foreordained by the Creator,” Talquist said haughtily. “The Scales themselves anointed me; I am divinely protected, as I believe I mentioned to you before.” His dark eyes took on a wicked gleam. “There are many things you do not yet know about me, Fhremus—and many more which you do not realize I know about you. But trust in this— Sorbold, the land we both love, is in more capable hands than you realized.” “Indeed, m'lord,” murmured Fhremus. He took another swallow ofthe single malt.

Talquist's eyes narrowed slightly. “Come,” he ordered. “I will show you what our enemy is capable of, both in power and intent—and what we are preparing to do about it.”

He rose, turned, and strode to the inner reaches of his chamber. The commander leapt to his feet and followed him, leaving his glass on the ornately carved table, where the dregs caught the light of the waning sun in the bottom like a stain of drying blood.

It did not particularly surprise Fhremus to learn that the recesses of the Emperor Presumptive's chambers held a series of vaults and tunnels; the dynasty of the Dark Earth and the dynasty of the Forbidden Mountains before them, the rulers of Sorbold for more than seven centuries, had built into Jierna Tal as many mysteries and escape routes as they had fashioned into the empire itself. He had occasionally been allowed entree into such hidden places in the time of the Empress Lei-tha, but had not been shown this series, in what had once been her bedchamber.

He kept his face expressionless as the layers of drapery and tapestry were pulled aside, revealing each time a thicker, more metal-bound door, each with a subsequently more complex and difficult system of locks. Whatever the regent emperor had locked away in his chambers must have been either of great value or great danger, he reasoned, something that had apparently only been shown to a select few. He was not certain whether to feel honored or threatened.

When he entered the vault behind the final door, he decided he needed to embrace both impressions. Fhremus had heard enough from his troops to recognize what it was that he was seeing; still, it took him a moment to make the connection between the tales of horror that had been told to him and what he was witnessing within the emperor's own chambers.

Talquist set his glass down on a side table, drew back a heavy velvet drape, and revealed an alcove in the corner of the room. There within, standing on its own, was an immense statue of multicolored stone, veins of purple and vermilion and green running through what looked like wet clay drying at the edges to the color of sand. It was a statue of a soldier, of primitive garb and manufacture, one of its hands roughly hewn as if a tool or weapon of some sort had been torn from its palm in the course of its curing. Its facial features and hair were similarly roughly carved, and it was crowned with an armored helm that Fhremus recognized as in the style of the ancient indigenous peoples of the continent that inhabited Sorbold in the time before written history, before the Cymrian era of the Illuminaria, when most of the accounts and chronicles of the world had begun to be written down, inscribed on great scrolls and kept in libraries.