The Skull Throne (27 page)

Shifting back to Docktown and adjusting his lens, Abban could clearly see individual workers on the docks. They moved easily, unaware what was about to befall them.

Even from this distance, Abban could hear the thunder of the Krasian charge. The first Dockfolk they encountered looked up at the sound just in time to die, impaled on light spears thrown from moving horses. The
dal’Sharum
were brutal, uneducated animals, but at killing they were second to none.

They spread out as they made the town, some riding into the streets to create havoc and subdue the Dockfolk as others flanked the town to either side and put on speed, racing to come at the docks from both directions, before the sailors even realized what was happening.

Now the screams began, cries of victims cut quickly short, and the prolonged wails of those left in the wake. Abban took no pleasure in the sounds, but neither did he feel remorse. This was not senseless killing. There was more profit to be made in a quick submission than an extended siege. Let the
Sharum
have their fun, so long as they captured the docks, the ships, and the tithe.

Fires began to crop up as the warriors sought to sow confusion and chaos while they made their way to their objective. As a rule, Abban hated fire as a tool of war. Indiscriminate and expensive, it inevitably destroyed things of value.
Sharum
lives were cheaper by far.

Horns began to sound, followed by the great bell on the docks. Abban watched as the sailors dropped the cargo they were loading and raced for the ships.

The air around the docks turned sharp as Mehnding archers loosed their arrows and
Sharum
hurled throwing spears, killing first the men on deck—frantically trying to cast lines and raise sail—and then the fleeing workers.

Abban smiled, turning his lens out onto the water. A few approaching ships turned away, but one found a clear stretch of dock and swept in, throwing down planks for women and children fleeing the attack.

The planks bowed under the weight of the rush, and more than one refugee fell into the water. Able men joined the press, pushing and shoving until it seemed more than not were falling into the water. No one bothered to help the fallen—all were focused on getting aboard.

At last the ship reached capacity, dipping noticeably deeper in the water. The captain shouted something into his horn, but the fleeing townsfolk kept trying to get aboard. The sailors kicked out the planks before they sank the ship, and turned the sails to the wind, moving swiftly away from water churning with desperate, screaming refugees.

Abban sighed. He might feel no remorse, but neither did he wish to watch people drown. He moved his lens back over the town, where the
Sharum
appeared to have taken firm control. He hoped they would douse the fires quickly, already there was too much smoke … 

Abban started, moving the lens quickly back to the docks.

“Everam’s balls, not again,” he said. He turned to Qeran. “Ready the men. We’re going in.”

“It is hours before noon,” Qeran said. “The Sharum Ka—”

“Is going to lose this war if he doesn’t get his camel-fucking idiot warriors under control,” Abban snapped.

“They are burning the ships.”

“What difference does it make?” Jayan demanded. “Capture the tithe, you said. Do not let the ships escape, you said. We have done both, and still you dare come shouting before me?”

Abban took a deep breath. His blood was up as high as Jayan’s, and that was a dangerous thing. He might speak to Ahmann as if he were a fool, but his son would not tolerate such words from a
khaffit.

He bowed. “With respect, Sharum Ka, how are we to get your warriors to the city on the lake to conquer it without boats?”

“We will build our own. How hard can it …” Jayan trailed off, looking at the huge cargo vessels with their intricate rigging.

“Put them out!” he cried. “Icha! Sharu! Get those fires under control. Move the remaining ships away from the flames!”

But of course the
Sharum
had no idea how to move the ships, and the Everam-cursed things seemed to catch sparks as if oiled. Abban watched in horror as a fleet of almost forty large ships and hundreds of smaller ones—along with much of the docks—was reduced to ten scorched ships and a scattering of smaller vessels.

Jayan glared, as if daring Abban to speak of the lost fleet, but Abban kept wisely silent. The ships were a concern for springtime, and winter had only just begun. They had the tithe, and if they had lost the ships, so, too, had Lakton lost its link to the mainland.

“My congratulations on a fine victory, Sharum Ka,” Abban said, reading the stream of reports from his men as they catalogued the spoils of the attack. The grain would mostly be sent back to Everam’s Bounty, but there were countless barrels of strong drink Abban could make vanish, and turn to profit, as well as other precious items and real estate. “The Damajah will be most pleased with you.”

“You will learn soon enough,
khaffit,
” Jayan said, “my mother is never pleased. Never proud.”

Abban shrugged. “The treasure is vast. You can hire a thousand mothers to follow you and shower you with praise.”

Jayan looked at him sidelong. “How vast?”

“Enough to give lands, holdings, and ten thousand draki apiece to all your most trusted lieutenants,” Abban said. A year’s pay to most
Sharum,
the number seemed grand, but it was a pittance spread amongst a few dozen men.

“Don’t be so quick to give away my fortune,
khaffit,
” Jayan growled.

“Your fortune?” Abban asked, seeming hurt. “I would not be so presumptuous. These are anticipated costs of war covered in the budget I gave the Andrah before leaving. Your purse will be free to begin settling your outstanding debt to the Builders’ Guild. I can arrange payment directly, if you wish.”

Like all men, Jayan had little tells as his blood began to rise. He cracked his knuckles, and Abban knew he had struck a nerve.

Jayan’s weakness was his palace. He was determined it be greater than any other, as befit the Skull Throne’s true heir. Coupled with his complete inability to count past his fingers, the quest had left the firstborn prince with stale air in his coffers and more interest accumulating each day than he could hope to pay. More than once he had come before the Skull Throne begging money for the “war effort” simply to keep his creditors at bay. Construction on the palace of the Sharum Ka had stopped midway, an embarrassment that followed Jayan everywhere.

It had to be dealt with, if the boy were to ever become pliable.

“Why should I pay those dogs?” Jayan demanded. “They have suckled at my teat too long! And for what? My palace dome looks like a cracked egg! No, now that I have this victory, they will resume work or I will have them killed.”

Abban nodded. “That is your right, of course, Sharum Ka. But then you would be short of skilled artisans, and those remaining would have no materials to work with. Or will you kill the quarrymen as well? The drainage pipe makers? Will threats keep the pack animals alive without money for feed?”

Jayan was silent a long time, and Abban allowed him a moment to simmer.

“Frankly, Sharum Ka,” Abban said, “if you were to kill anyone, it should be the moneylenders for the ridiculous interest rate they are charging you.”

Jayan clenched his fists. It was well known that he had exhausted a line of credit with every moneylender in Krasia. He opened his mouth to begin a tirade that would likely end in him commanding something quite bloody and stupid.

Abban cleared his throat just in time. “If you will allow me to negotiate on your behalf, Sharum Ka, I believe I can eliminate much of your debt, and begin payments that will see work on your palace resume without emptying your purse.”

He dropped his voice lower, his words for Jayan alone. “Your power and influence will only increase with a reputation as a man who pays his debts, Sharum Ka. As your father was.”

“Do not trust the
khaffit,
Sharum Ka,” Hasik warned. “He will whisper poison in your ear.”

“Do,” Abban said, pointing his chin at Hasik, “and you’ll be able to give your dog a golden cock to match his tooth.”

Jayan barked a laugh, and the rest of his entourage was quick to follow. Hasik’s face reddened and he reached for his spear.

Jayan put two fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. “Whistler! Heel me!”

Hasik turned to him incredulously, but the cold look the young Sharum Ka gave him made clear how he would deal with insolence. Hasik’s head drooped as he moved to stand behind Jayan.

“You have done well,
khaffit,
” Jayan said. “Perhaps I won’t need to kill you after all.”

Abban worked hard to keep his face and stance relaxed as he watched the warriors surround the warehouse, but his jaw was tight. He had begged Jayan to let him send his Hundred for the delicate mission instead of the
dal’Sharum,
but was dismissed out of hand. There was too much glory to be had.

The massive dockfront warehouse had great windows facing the three great piers jutting into the water like a trident. The local merchant prince, Dockmaster Isa, had reportedly barricaded himself and his guards inside.

According to Abban’s spies, the dockmasters were the real power in Lakton. Duke Reecherd was the strongest of them, but unless there was a tie, his vote had little more weight than any other.

“You shame him with that task,” Qeran said.

Abban turned to the approaching drillmaster, who was nodding at Earless. The rest of Abban’s Hundred ranged all over the town, surveying and preparing reports.

“Earless is one of the finest close fighters I have ever seen,” Qeran went on, free with his praise, knowing the warrior could not hear him. “He should be out killing
alagai,
not shading a fat
khaffit
afraid of a little sun.”

Admittedly, the
kha’Sharum,
seven feet of roped muscle and bristling with weapons, did look a bit foolish holding the delicate paper parasol over Abban. Mute, he could not protest, not that Abban would have cared. He thought he knew sun after a lifetime in the Krasian desert, but the refection off the lake water was something else entirely.

“I pay my
kha’Sharum
very well, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “If I wish them to put on a woman’s colored robes and do the pillow dance, they would be wise to do it with a smile.”

Abban turned back to watch the
Sharum
kick in the doors and storm the warehouse. Bows were fired from the second and third floor windows. Most deflected off round warded shields, but here and there a warrior screamed and fell.

Still the warriors pressed, bottlenecking at the door. Above, a cask of oil was dumped on their heads, followed by a torch, immolating a dozen men. Half of them were wise enough to run off the pier and leap into the water, but the rest stumbled about screaming, setting others alight. Their warrior brethren were forced to turn spears on them.

“If he has half a brain,” Abban said, “Earless prefers the parasol.”

It was the first real organized resistance Jayan’s men had encountered, killing and wounding more warriors than the rest of the town combined. But there were hundreds of
Sharum
and only a handful of Isa’s guards. They were quickly overwhelmed and the fires extinguished before they could destroy the grand building Jayan had already claimed as his Docktown palace.

“Everam,” Abban said, “if ever you have heard my pleas, let them bring the dockmaster out alive.”

“I spoke to the men just before the assault,” Qeran said. “These are Spears of the Deliverer. They will not fail in their duty just because a few men were sent down the lonely path. Those men died with honor and will soon stand before Everam to be judged.”

“The best trained dog will bite unbidden if pressed,” Abban said.

Qeran grunted, the usual sign he was swallowing offense. Abban shook his head.
Sharum
were full of bold speeches about honor, but they lived by their passions, and seldom thought past the moment. Would they know the dockmaster from one of his guards?

The clear signal was given, and Abban, Qeran, and Earless moved in to join the Sharum Ka as the prisoners were brought out.

A cluster of women came first. Most of them were in long dresses of fine cloth in the greenland fashion. Whorish by Krasian standards, but demure by their own. Abban could tell by their hair and jewels that these were women of good breeding or marriage, used to luxury. They were largely unspoiled, but through no mercy of the warriors. Jayan would be given his pick of the youngest, and the rest would be divided by his officers.

A few of the women were dressed in breeches like men. These bore bruises, but their clothing was intact.

The same could not be said of the
chin
guards marched through the doors next. The men had been stripped in shame, arms bound behind them around spear shafts. The
dal’Sharum
drove them outside with kicks, shoves, and leather straps.

But they were alive. It gave Abban hope that this once, the
Sharum
might exceed his low expectations.

Some women watched the scene in horror, but most turned away, sobbing. One, a strong woman in her middle years, watched with hard eyes. She was dressed in men’s clothing, but of fine cut and quality. Other women clutched at her for support.

The warriors kicked
chin’s
knees out and put boots to their naked backs, holding their heads to the ground in submission as Jayan approached.

“Where is the dockmaster?” Jayan demanded in accented but understandable Thesan.

Hasik knelt before him. “We have searched the entire building, Sharum Ka. There is no sign of him. He must have disguised himself among the fighting men.”

“Or escaped,” Abban said. Hasik glared at him, but he could not deny the possibility.

Jayan approached a man at random, kicking him so hard the man was flipped onto his back. He squirmed, naked and helpless, but his face was defiant as Jayan put the point of his spear to the man’s heart.