The Myst Reader (139 page)

THE P’AAR’RO, THE GREAT STEWARD, LEADER
of the P’aarli, lounged in his chair, in the cool of the great canopy, lulled by the movement of the carriage beneath him. The campaign had begun well. Already a huge number of the relyimah—more than eight hundred thousand in all—had been taken and penned, and more were being taken by the hour. Those who resisted were slaughtered, but that was not many, and he was loathe to waste good slaves. The habit of obedience, deeply instilled in them, had not been shaken by events, and it was that as much as anything that reassured him. They were a rabble, after all. Disorganized. Totally without rational thought. One had only to tell them to submit and they obeyed. Even so, the task was not inconsiderable, and he had prepared his men for trouble.

He gazed about him indolently. It was some time since he had last been in Terahnee, and he had forgotten how pleasant a place it was. In recent years much of his time had been spent in the home Age, supervising the great task of training new stewards, but the sickness had changed all that. Now their priorities had changed.

He looked down, past the broad, elaborately decorated gunwales to where the slaves slowly walked, their eyes averted, the long wooden poles, cut to resemble a thickly corded rope, resting on their shoulders. Could he train himself
not
to see them?

The thought amused him. It was like the chair in which he sat; it was a perfect copy of the king’s great chair, only jade, not emerald. But why should he put up with copies anymore?

Yes, things had changed, and they must change with them.

They would need stewards for a start.

Well … maybe there were some among the relyimah who could be trained to that task. The scribes, perhaps.

The P’aar’Ro grinned, then sat back, letting his eyes close lazily. It was time they took things easy. Time they got someone else to do the dirty work.

YMUR WAS WAITING FOR THEM IN THE ORCHARD.
As the P’aarli passed between the trees, his men fell on them from above, while others, who had been hiding behind the trunks, rushed at them with nets and knives, using their own tricks on them.

Most of them were killed in that first frenzied minute, but two of the P’aarli survived, pinned down beneath his men. Ymur watched them struggle to get up, listening to their incessant shouting, then stepped up to the nearest of them and slapped his face hard.

The man fell silent. There was blood on his lip and his eyes were wide with shock.

“How many of you are there?” Ymur asked, crouching over the man, meeting his eyes and letting him see he was not afraid of him.

The P’aarli just laughed.

Ymur slapped him again, harder this time, making the man cry out.

There was laughter from the watching relyimah; a cruel, satisfied laughter.

Ymur looked about him, grinning now, then straightened up. “What does it matter?” he said, turning his back on the two. “We’ll have them all before we’re finished.” Then, drawing his long knife, a great butcher’s knife used for cutting haunches, he turned back and showed it to them, enjoying the sight as the blood drained from their faces.

YMUR’S MEN PLACED THE BODIES ON STRAW
pallets, then took them out and displayed them around all the local estates, making much of the wounds, and laughing as they told how easy it had been. And then, when that tale was told, they would raise the standard and bid all there to come and join them in the great task of liberating Terahnee.

Many blanched at that and turned away, but many others responded, and so the small rabble with which Ymur had begun became a host, and then an army.

As he went about his camp, arranging things, Ymur nodded to himself. It was strange how it had happened, how the old men had come to him, for it had been in his own mind to raise a force and take on the accursed P’aarli. Better that—better death—than be a slave again. And so he threw himself into the task, cajoling and bullying, attempting to meld that docile host into some kind of fighting force.

He knew it would not be easy. That business in the orchard had been a cheat, in a way. He had known he could get away with it … with luck. But fighting a full-fledged battle against a well-disciplined army was another thing. He had seen the P’aarli at work in the Ages, and could not forget how fearsome they had looked. It did not scare
him
, but he knew he was exceptional in that regard. Most of his men would as willingly jump into a raging fire as face that great host. Yet there had to be a way.

Four days he had, if reports of the P’aarli’s progress could be believed. Five days at most.

He stopped, then laughed, seeing that the answer had come, unasked, in the very weave of his thoughts. Fire. That was it! He would use fire.

“Uta!” he called, summoning the slave-child who had been one of the first to flock to his banner. “Come, child, I have a message for you to run. To Atrus, back at the capital. It begins …”

ATRUS WAS STANDING AT HIS DESK, STUDYING
the map of the capital that was spread out before him, when Uta stepped into the room.

“Uta!” he cried, pleased to see the boy. “You have news for me?”

Uta came across and, stopping before Atrus, bowed his head low, not looking up as he spoke.

“Ymur bids me hail you his friend, and asks if such a thing as liquid fire can be had. If so, he asks for a thousand barrels of it, to be delivered to him by tomorrow evening latest.”

Atrus stared at the boy, astonished. “Liquid fire?” he said quietly, more to himself than in answer. “Yes … I will supply it.”

He nodded decisively. “Tell our good friend Ymur that he will have what he asks for.”

Uta made to turn and leave the room, but Atrus called him back.

“Hold on, Uta! Wait an hour before you return. Catherine, I know, would like to see you before you go.”

AFTER THE BOY HAD GONE, ATRUS STOOD THERE
a long while, wondering to what use Ymur was thinking of putting the liquid fire. Whatever it was, he would have to give him instructions—send Irras, maybe, or Carrad to advise him in its use. Then, shrugging that off, he turned his attention back to the map.

He had already marked which avenues and canals in the eastern city should be cut off, and Hersha and Eedrah were already busy organizing the task. Now he needed to decide which of the remaining thoroughfares was best suited to his plan.

If his guess was right, the P’aarli would want to take the capital. If so, then he would lead them into a maze of sorts. A deadly maze, where things were constantly dropped on them and shot at them.

There would be no battles, not even hand-to-hand, for the relyimah would remain unseen.

Gat, particularly, had liked the plan. But Baddu had been far less convinced by it. “Why should the P’aarli come into our trap? What if they wait outside?”

“Then they wait,” Atrus said. “But we make sure they have no means of supporting themselves while they wait. We take away their food and water.”

“But how do we do that?” Baddu had asked.

“By burning every field about the east of the capital and blocking up every waterway.”

“And if that fails?”

“Then we find another way to fight them. We are many.”

“We are many,” Gat echoed, liking the phrase, nodding his blind face enthusiastically. “And the P’aarli …” He grinned broadly. “The P’aarli are arrogant. They will come into our trap!”

THEY HAD DRAWN THE BIG AWNING BACK, TO
reveal the P’aar’Ro, seated in his honorary chair of state. The relyimah had moved back out of sight, and the carriage seemed to rest—to float almost—between the pillars.

The three Terahnee halted, looking about them, not certain quite how to proceed. Then, gaining in confidence, they walked through into the great hall, smiling as they saw the silver hair of the old man, the wine-red cloak. This much, at least, was familiar.

“P’aar’Ro!” one of them called, hailing the Great Steward. “We welcome you to Ro’Derraj! We are the last Terahnee in the district. The governor …”

He fell silent, then waited, expecting the P’aar’Ro to stand, perhaps, and come down to greet them, but the chief of the servants merely sat there, as if no one had spoken. Indeed, now that they looked closer, the Terahnee noticed that he was eating!

They turned, looking back at the line of P’aarli who now stood along the line of the great doorway, blocking it, then turned back.

Strange …

“When we heard you had returned, we were overjoyed!” the second of them said, then stopped, for the P’aar’Ro had sat forward, as if about to speak. Instead, gesturing to the stewards behind them, he nodded toward the three Terahnee then drew his finger across his throat.

“P’aar’Ro?” one of them queried. “Is the interview over?”

But he had barely finished the sentence when he was grabbed from behind.

The P’aar’Ro considered the half-eaten fruit in his hand, then threw it aside, feigning not to notice the slave who quickly and unobtrusively retrieved it and carried it away.