The Godspeaker Trilogy (144 page)

“Impossible!” protested Halash of Dev'karesh. “My chief will not hear of that.”

More agitated muttering as the others agreed. Rhian lifted her hands, palm out. “Please. Be reasonable. My people have the right to defend themselves.”

“And we have the right to defend ourselves from Tzhung-tzhungchai!” said An-chata.

“You are in danger from Mijak, not from the Tzhung,” said Han. “Or from a little army of Ethrea. Listen to the queen. Listen to this prisoner prince of Mijak. Listen—”

“To the wind?” sneered Gutten. “To the farting of Tzhung's demon god? No. Without Arbenia and Harbisland to hold you in check your empire would own the world, Han. That ambition is thwarted. Now you tell these lies so you can rule us all.” He swung round. “You are a girl. What do you know of men and their greed for power?”

Rhian felt another wave of heat rush through her. “You can ask me that? When you know how Marlan pursued me, would have killed me? When you saw me kill Damwin and Kyrin because their greed for power overturned their minds? You can ask me that, Gutten ? My God, I'm almost tempted to let Mijak have you. Wouldn't that serve you right for being so short-sighted and stupid .”

“Your Majesty—” said Helfred, sounding pained.

She lifted a clenched fist to his face. “Be quiet, Your Eminence.”

She leapt down from the dais, heedless of the pains such sharp movement woke in her still-recovering body, and stormed among the gaping ambassadors. Han and Lai melted into the shadows. Zandakar, startled, would have moved to protect her but his guards took hold of him and dragged him out of the way. She barely noticed.

“Rollin's grace! How are you the best your masters can find? How am I, so newly come to power, the only one who sees clearly the danger we face? You prate to me of treaties and charters and you forget this: Mijak has made no treaty with us . Mijak seeks to destroy us. Its warriors are thralled to an evil beyond comprehension. The god they worship is a god of blood and death and they will not stop until we bow down before it. Instead of accusing Emperor Han you should be on your knees thanking him, because he has offered the might of Tzhung-tzhungchai against these demon-driven warriors of Mijak.”

“The might of Tzhung-tzhungchai is used for one thing only!” Gutten shouted. “Conquest for its emperor!” He turned to his fellow-ambassadors, his eyes alive with hate and rage. “You see what this is? This is Han of Tzhung in league with Rhian of Ethrea, determined to swallow the world between them. There is no Mijak, there is no horde of warriors waiting to slaughter us. She lies !”

“I do not !” Rhian shouted back, and shoved Gutten in the chest with both fists. “You fool, is Zandakar here by chance ? God sent him to me so I would know about Mijak and its bloodthirsty empress. God gave me miracles so I would be crowned Ethrea's queen and have the power to use Zandakar to save my kingdom from Mijak. To save all of us from Mijak. Tzhung isn't the enemy. Ethrea needs the Tzhung empire, it needs Arbenia and Harbisland and Keldrave and the rest of you. It will take all of us, Gutten, fighting together, to have any hope against Mijak. Do you want to die, Ambassador? Do you want the world to drown in blood?”

Silence. Every man in the room stared at her. She stared back, dizzy with shouting, desperate for their belief.

Athnïj of Icthia cleared his throat. “We heard there were miracles, or some such thing,” he said diffidently. “Of course we heard. There was talk of a common man…”

“A toymaker,” she said, abruptly exhausted. “I've known him all my life. He raised a child from the dead. Marlan touched him, and died. God sent him dreams of Mijak so he could bear witness to the truth.”

Even as Gutten turned away, his face twisted in ugly rejection, Voolksyn of Harbisland stroked his fingers down his beard. “Dreams, you say?”

She nodded. The swordcut on her back was burning, and there was a slick wetness beneath the silk brocade of her dress. In her passion, in her anger, she'd torn open Ursa's stitches. But what did it matter? There'd be more blood where that came from if she failed to win this fight.

“Dreams can be powerful,” said Voolksyn. “Dreams can come from the mother.”

The people of Harbisland worshipped a goddess. They called her nanatynsala , mother spirit of the earth. Helfred said it was more heathenish nonsense, but right now she'd take any help she could find.

“The toymaker's dreams are powerful beyond imagining,” she said. “And on Eberg's grave I swear, they show him the truth.”

“Voolksyn?” said Gutten, incredulous. “You cannot listen to her. This is Han, this is Tzhung, our masters will not have it!”

Voolksyn shook his head. “If she lies, the mother will break her. Queen, you say this toymaker dreams to bear witness?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Then let him bear witness. Let him speak, and we will judge.”

Rhian swallowed. Oh, God. Dexterity… “Of course. Commander Idson—”

Idson bowed. “Your Majesty?”

“Fetch Mister Jones. Bring him here, quickly.”

Another bow. “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Idson. And then he was gone.

She nodded at Voolksyn, turned and walked back to the dais. Kept her head high and her spine straight, even as her heart pounded painfully in her chest.

Dexterity…Dexterity. Please. Don't hold a grudge.

Dexterity was pottering in the vegetable patch at the bottom of the cottage's back garden when Commander Idson came for him.

“Mr. Jones?”

He turned round so fast he overbalanced and fell over, squashing a very fine tomato plant. Dripping red pulp and seeds, heart thudding, he stared at Kingseat's garrison commander. “Yes? What? What have I done wrong now?”

Commander Idson's breastplate was too bright to look at. The unclouded sun dazzled the polished steel, transforming him into a man of white fire. Marlan, burning, mouth wide in a scream …Dexterity closed his eyes and averted his face.

“I'm not privy to that information, Mister Jones,” said Idson. “Her Majesty requires your presence at the castle.”

He unscrewed his eyes and peered cautiously at Idson, then past him. Where were the other soldiers? They didn't usually send just one man for an arrest. Was this a trick, then? Or some cruel method of luring him into an uncautious utterance?

Carefully he stood. “I'm not dressed for royalty.”

Idson looked him up and down, taking in the compost-smothered gardening clogs, the baggy trousers, the shirt that had certainly seen better days. And, of course, the remains of squashed tomato.

“Nevertheless, Mister Jones. Your presence is required.”

A tiny bubble of resentment rose to his throat. “Why? I haven't done anything wrong. Unless weeding is counted a crime these days.”

Commander Idson's mouth tightened. “Mister Jones, I don't care to lay hands on you, but I will if I must. Her Majesty has given me an order and I'll obey it.”

“An order to escort me to the castle.” He wiped his hands on his trousers; sweat was turning the dirt to mud. “What bit of the castle?”

“The Grand Ballroom,” said Idson, after a moment. As though saying that much was a betrayal of state secrets.

Not the dungeons, then. She's not putting me back there, to keep company with Zandakar.

The bubble of resentment persisted. “She needs me, does she?”

“What Her Majesty needs or doesn't need is not for me to say.” Idson took a suggestive step backwards. “The queen is waiting, sir.”

And that was that. The queen is waiting …so who cared what a nobody toymaker might need, or how busy he might be, or what other plans he might have for the rest of his day.

I don't care what Hettie said, I'm not mixing myself up in this business again. Whatever I do it'll end up being the wrong thing and I'll find myself locked up a second time.

Even to himself he sounded sulky…and didn't care.

“All right,” he said, grudging. “I don't suppose I've a choice.”

“None, sir,” said Idson.

He was perversely pleased the matter was so important, apparently, that he wasn't even to have a moment to change into clean clothes.

Even if I could change I think I'd stay like this. I think that young lady needs to know not everyone thinks the sun rises in her eyes.

Not any more, anyway.

Idson had come in a light cart pulled by a strong fast horse and driven by one of his subordinates. It had an uncovered back, which meant everyone in the street could see Mister Jones was in trouble again…

As the young soldier whipped up the horse and guided the cart into a swift about-face, Dexterity sat on the hard wooden seat and scowled at the curtained windows of his neighbours' cottages.

Yes, yes, I'm in trouble again…

Idson said not a word during the journey to the castle. Dexterity wanted to ask him about Rhian's judicial combat with the dukes, but the commander's expression was so forbidding he didn't dare. How frustrating. Ursa hadn't been precisely forthcoming with details. Even though he was still so hurt and angry, he couldn't help but feel worried too.

I remember her a little girl, trailing a lambswool-stuffed dolly behind her. Now she's killing grown men with a sword. And is that God's plan too, Hettie? A young girl slaughtering men old enough to be herfather?

Not that Rhian had been given much choice. The dukes had practically slaughtered themselves, so stubbornly had they refused to yield.

Even so, Hettie. What has the cost been to the girl? All very well to say they deserved it. But does she deserve a life crowded with those kind of memories?

A pang went through him, remembering how she'd suffered over the death of Ven'Martin. And then he remembered he was angry and hurt, and what Rhian might or might not be feeling was none of his business. He folded his arms, ignoring Idson and glaring at the back of the younger soldier's head for the rest of the journey.

They reached the castle without incident. The cart halted in one of the rear courtyards and Idson gestured him out. In silence he followed the commander inside and through a maze of ground floor corridors until they reached a set of magnificently carved, gilded and painted double doors guarded by a full skein of Idson's finest men. They saluted when they saw their commander.

“The Grand Ballroom,” said Idson, with a sideways glance. “Her Majesty waits within. Are you prepared, Mister Jones?”

No, of course he wasn't. But there was no point in saying that, so he shrugged. “Yes. I suppose.”

“All right then,” said Idson, and nodded.

Two of his soldiers flung open the doors.

T
he Grand Ballroom was breathtaking, and full of ambassadors. Well, not full , the hall was an enormous space that could fit three hundred dancing couples, at least. But it felt full, with all those people staring incredulously at Commander Idson and his scruffy companion.

“Dexterity!” said a guttural, familiar voice as the soldiers pulled closed the ballroom's wide doors.

Dexterity looked left and saw Zandakar. It was most disconcerting to see the Mijaki warrior dressed like an Ethrean in linen and wool. His blue hair, so long now, gleamed in the bright candlelight. He looked well-fed. Not ill-treated, despite the six soldiers flanking him. His pale blue eyes were warm with pleasure.

Despite everything, he smiled. “Zandakar.”

“Mister Jones,” said Idson, coldly.

Of course. Greeting anyone before making obeisance to the queen was a glaring breach of protocol.

And you know something, Hettie? I could not care less.

Idson left him to walk to the dais alone, where Rhian sat on a throne surrounded by so many important men. There was Helfred, splendid in crimson. There was Alasdair, with such dark, shadowed eyes. Ah yes, and the king's cousin Ludo, the new Duke of Linfoi. A bright, merry young man – when he wasn't caught up in terrible happenings. Duke Edward. Duke Rudi. And Rudi's son Adric, so recently elevated.

The privy council as it is now. She's got so many courtiers to give her advice, she doesn't need me.

He felt a particular cool gaze upon him and looked sideways. Emperor Han . There was a man to chill a toymaker's bones. The gathered ambassadors, well, they meant little or nothing to him. But Emperor Han and his witch-men were frightful. Memory battered him, of being held in that prison cell below the castle's foundations, being confronted by Han's merciless Sun-dao. The man had winnowed his soul without hesitation or mercy.

And was that a part of your plan too, Hettie?

No doubt about it, his unkempt appearance was making an impression. On the dais the privy council frowned, to a man. The gathered ambassadors inched backwards in case his dirt was contagious.

But Rhian just waited for him to reach her on the dais. Magnificent in black brocade and those savagely carved rubies, she looked pale and exhausted and in quite a lot of pain. Was he the only one here who could see that? In their crowded weeks together he'd come to know her so well.

“Mister Jones,” she said, as he reached the foot of the dais and stopped. “It seems you have been interrupted.”

He bowed. “I was gardening…Your Majesty.”

“Yes. I thought you might've been.” She nodded at the dried pulp on his trousers. “Does the crown owe you a new tomato plant?”

Her humour was brittle, with anger lingering beneath it. Oh, if only they weren't in front of an audience. If only they were on the road again, in the peddler's wagon, and he could speak to her plainly, man to woman. Friend to friend. They had been friends, hadn't they?

“Majesty, Commander Idson said you wanted me.”

Rhian nodded. “Yes.”

He let his gaze slide sideways to Helfred. Very, very slightly Ethrea's new prolate nodded, his eyes narrowing. Dexterity read the message without difficulty. This is important. Your hurt feelings can wait .

One of the ambassadors, Arbenian from the gruff bearhide look of him, pushed forward. “You are the toymaker she says is touched by your God?”

She says . Well, here was a rude fellow and no mistake. Dexterity felt his spine stiffen. All very well for him to be at odds with Rhian. She was his queen and something more, besides. But what right did this foreigner have to be rude to Rhian under her own roof?