The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3) (25 page)

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Authors: R. Scott Bakker

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BOOK: The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3)
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Kneeling naked in his apartments, he neither moved nor started at the sound of approaching footsteps. He was Ikurei Conphas I. And though he had no choice but to continue this obscene pantomime with the Scylvendi—surprise was ever the grist of victory—his subordinates were a different matter altogether. At long last the days of censoring his words and rationing his actions were over. His uncle’s spies were now
his
spies, and he knew quite well the length and beam of his own sedition.
“The Saik Grandmaster has arrived,” Sompas said from the darkness behind him.
“Just Cememketri?” Conphas replied. “No one else?”
“Your instructions were explicit, God-of-Men.”
The Emperor smiled. “Wait with him. I come shortly.”
Never had he been so desperate for information. The anxiousness was so acute that he had no choice but to master it. The hunger that whined the loudest should always be the last fed. One must have discipline about the Imperial Table.
He barked into the gloom after the General had departed. A naked Kianene girl crept forward, her eyes wide in terror. Conphas patted the rug before him, watched impassively as she assumed the position—knees spread, shoulders down, peach raised—before him. Hiking his kilt, he knelt between her orange legs. He need only strike her once before she learned to hold the mirror steady. But as he began to minister to her, another far better idea came upon him. He bid her hold the mirror before
his
face, so that her own reflection stared down upon her.
“Watch yourself,” he cooed. “Watch, and the pleasure will come … I swear it.”
For some reason the cold press of silver against his cheek fanned his ardour. They climaxed together, despite her shame. It made her seem more than the animal he knew her to be.
He would make, he decided, a far different Emperor from his uncle.
Seven days had passed since his meeting with Fanayal, and still the point had not taken. Conphas was not one to fret over omens—he had watched his fool uncle twist from that wire for far too long—but he could not help but mourn the
circumstance
of his investiture. To rise to the Mantle of the Nansurium while prisoner of a Scylvendi—a
Scylvendi
! And to learn of it from a Kianene—from the
Padirajah,
no less! Though the humiliation meant nothing to him, it was an irony too sharp not to smack of the Gods. What if his candle had burned to the stub? What if they did begrudge their brothers?
The timing was all wrong.
Momemn was almost certainly in an uproar. According to Fanayal’s sources, Ngarau, his uncle’s Grand Seneschal, had taken matters in hand, hoping to secure Conphas’s favour upon his return. Fanayal had insisted that his succession was secure—that no one either on or off the Andiamine Heights would dare foment against the great Lion of Kiyuth. And though Conphas’s vanity assured him this was true, he could not overlook the fact that this was precisely what the newly anointed Padirajah
needed
him to believe. Though the Holy War lay far from Nenciphon and the White-Sun Palace, Kian stood upon the brink of an abyss. And if Conphas rushed to Momemn to secure his claim, Fanayal would be doomed.
What Son of the Salt would not say anything to save his nation?
Two things had convinced him to remain in Joktha and continue this farce with the Scylvendi: the prospect of crossing Khemema once again, and the fact that, according to Fanayal, it had been his
grandmother
who had killed Xerius. As mad as the notion seemed, and as much as Fanayal’s protestations had provoked his suspicion, he somehow knew that this simply had to be what had happened. Years before, she had killed her husband to install her beloved son. And now she had killed her son to install her beloved grandson …
And, perhaps more importantly,
to bring him home
.
From the beginning, Istriya had balked at the notion of betraying the Holy War. Conphas had forgiven her this, knowing that the old have eyes keen for encroaching shadows. What dusk does not bring thoughts of dawn? It was the intensity of her aversion that worried him. Claws such as hers did not grow brittle with age, as his uncle had apparently discovered.
The murder was entirely consistent with her character, of course. Canine avarice was ever the hook from which all her motives hung. She had assassinated Xerius, not for the sake of the Holy War, but for the sake of her precious
soul
. Conphas found himself snorting in derision whenever the thought struck him. One might sooner wash shit from shit than cleanse a soul so wicked!
But in the absence of facts to fix them, these thoughts and worries could do naught but cycle round and round, quickened by the mad stakes and the perverse unreality of it all.
I’m Emperor,
he would think.
Emperor!
But as things stood, he was a prisoner of his ignorance—far more so than of the Scylvendi. And with his Saik Caller, Darastius, dead, there was nothing to be done about it. Save wait.
He found the old man prostrate on the floor beneath the impromptu dais and chair Sompas had arranged for him. The Scylvendi had installed him and his officers in a burnt-brick manse near the centre of Joktha—an old Nansur exchange house, as luck would have it—and though technically he was free to wander where he might, a watch had been set on all the building’s entrances. Fortunately for them, the Conriyans were a civilized people, sharing a civilized appreciation for bribes.
Conphas took his place on the dais, stared across what had once been a moneychanger’s floor. In the gloom, bland mosaics wandered across the walls, conjuring a peculiar sense of home. An acrid edge of smoke plagued his every breath; thanks to the Scylvendi, they had been reduced to burning furnishings. Sompas stood discreetly in the same outer gloom as the slaves. Between four glowering braziers, the man lay face-first on a gold and purple prayer mat—pillaged from some tabernacle, Conphas supposed. Despite the thousand questions that raced through his soul, he gazed at him in silence for a long moment, noted the shine of his pate through strings of white hair.
Finally he said, “I take it you’ve heard as well.”
Of course, the man said nothing. Clever as he was, Cememketri was a savant when it came to the finer points of Court etiquette. According to ancient custom, the Emperor was not to be addressed without explicit consent. Few Emperors bothered with the Antique Protocol, as it was called, but now, with Xerius dead, ancient precedent was all that remained. The crossbow had been fired, now everything had to be reset.
“You have my leave to rise,” Conphas said. “I hereby rescind the Antique Protocol. You may look me in the eye whenever you wish, Grandmaster.”
Two milk-white slaves, Galeoth or Cepaloran, ducked in from the dark to raise the man by his elbows. Conphas was vaguely shocked: the past months had been hard on the old fool. Hopefully he had the strength Conphas required.
“Emperor,” the white-haired sorcerer murmured while the slaves brushed the wrinkles from his black silk gown. “God-of-Men.”
There it was … His new name.
“So tell me, Grandmaster, what does the Imperial Saik make of these events?”
Cememketri studied him in the narrow way that, Conphas knew, had always unnerved his uncle.
But not me
.
“We’ve waited long,” the frail Schoolman said, “for one who might truly wield us … for an
Emperor
.”
Conphas grinned. Cememketri was an able man, and able men chafed under the rule of ingrates. The man could boast no ancestor scroll—but then sorcerers rarely could. He was Shiropti, a descendant of those Shigeki who had fled following the Imperial Army’s disastrous defeat at Huparna centuries before. The fact that he had risen to the rank of Grandmaster despite these defects—Shiropti were widely seen as thieves and usurers—spoke to his ability.
But could he be trusted?
Of all the Schools, only the Imperial Saik answered to mundane powers, only they remained an organ of their state. Since Xerius believed all men as vain and treacherous as himself, he simply assumed they secretly resented their servitude, when in reality it had been his distrust they despised. The Imperial Saik, Conphas knew, revered their traditions. They took deep pride in the fact that they alone honoured the old Compactorium, the ancient indenture that had bound all the Schools to Cenei and her Aspect-Emperors in Near Antiquity. The Saik alone had kept this venerable faith. They thought the others, especially the Scarlet Spires, little more than usurpers, reckless arrogates whose greed threatened the very existence of the Few.
All men recited self-aggrandizing stories, words of ascendancy and exception, to balm the inevitable indignities of fact. An emperor need only repeat those stories to command the hearts of men. But this axiom had always escaped Xerius. He was too bent on hearing his own story repeated to learn, let alone speak, the flatteries that moved other men.
“I assure you, Cememketri, the Imperial Saik will be wielded, and with all the respect and consideration accorded by the Compactorium. You alone have prevailed over what is base and wanton. You alone have kept faith with the glory of your past.”
Something akin to triumph brightened the man’s mien. “You honour us, God-of-Men.”
“Is all ready?”
“Very nearly so, God-of-Men.”
Conphas nodded and exhaled. He reminded himself to be methodical, disciplined. “Has Sompas told you of Darastius?”
“Darastius and I shared the same Compass in Momemn, so I learned that he’d fallen silent while in transit. For a time I feared the worst, God-of-Men. It brings me immeasurable relief to find you—and your designs—intact.”
Caller and Compass, the two poles of every sorcerous communication. The Compass was the anchor, the Schoolman who slept in the place known by the Caller, who entered his dreams bearing messages. This, Conphas knew, was but one of many reasons his uncle had harboured such suspicion of the Saik: so many of the Empire’s communications passed through them. He who controlled the messenger controlled the message as well. Which reminded him …
“You know of the Scarlet Schoolman assigned to the Scylvendi? Saurnemmi, his name is. No word of what happens here can reach the Holy War.” He let his gaze communicate the stakes.
Cememketri’s eyes had grown porcine with age, but they were sharp still. “If you deliver him alive, God-of-Men, we can ensure that the Scarlet fools will think all is well in Joktha. We need only incapacitate him before his assigned contact time—our Compulsions will do the rest. He will tell his handlers whatever you wish. And Darastius will be amply avenged, I assure you.”
Conphas nodded, realizing for the first time that it was
Imperial
favour he dispensed now. He hesitated, only for a heartbeat, but it was enough.
“You wish to know what happened,” Cememketri said. “How your uncle fell …” He stooped for a moment, then drew upright in what seemed a breath of resolution. “I know only what my Compass has told me. Even so, there’s much we must discuss, God-of-Men.”
“I imagine there is,” Conphas said, waving with indulgent impatience. “But the near before the far, Grandmaster, the near before the far. We have a Scylvendi to break …” He stared at the Schoolman with bland humour. “And a Holy War to annihilate.”
CHAPTER SIX
XERASH
Of course we make crutches of one another. Why else would we crawl when we lose our lovers?
—ONTILLAS,
ON THE FOLLY OF MEN
 
 
History. Logic. Arithmetic. These all should be taught by slaves.
—ANONYMOUS, THE NOBLE HOUSE
Early Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Xerash
Kellhus’s tactics and the Enathpanean terrain were such that Achamian had few opportunities to appreciate the Holy War’s diminished size. Despite the spoils of their victory on the Tertae Plains, Kellhus commanded that they forage as they go, forcing the Holy War to disperse across the rugged countryside. From what Achamian could glean from those conversations he cared to overhear, the Fanim in no way resisted their advance. Aside from hiding their daughters and what grain and livestock remained to them, all the villages and towns of eastern Enathpaneah capitulated.
The Men of the Tusk, with their plundered apparel and sun-bitten faces, looked far more Fanim than Inrithi. Aside from their shields and banners, only their weapons and armour distinguished them. Gone were the long war-skirts of the Conriyans, the woollen surcoats of the Galeoth, and the waist-bound mantles of the Ainoni. Almost without exception, they wore the many-coloured khalats of their enemy. They rode his sleek horses. They drank his wine from his vessels. They slept in his tents and bedded his daughters.
They had been transformed, and in ways that struck far deeper than mere accoutrements. The men Achamian recalled, the Inrithi who’d marched through the Southron Gates, were but the ancestors of the men he saw now. Just as he could no longer recognize the sorcerer who’d wandered into the Sareotic Library, they could no longer recognize the warriors who’d marched singing into the Carathay Desert. Those other men had become strangers. They might as well have brandished weapons of bronze.

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