Part 14 (1/2)

Something ... something ...

He found himself scrutinizing Tirnemus and Sanumnis whenever the opportunity afforded. Baron Tirnemus, he quickly decided, was an outright fool, a man more bent on recovering the belly he had lost at Caraskand than anything else. Sanumnis, on the other hand, was both clever and taciturn, and seemed to wield an obvious, yet inexplicable, authority over his stouter countryman. He was a watcher.

Had they been given secret orders? Orders that made one the senior? That would explain why Tirnemus deferred and Sanumnis watched. What, after all, would be the penalty for murdering the Nansur Emperor's only heir? For contravening the Warrior-Prophet's solemn vow?

I've been sent to murder myself. The thought made Cnaiur cackle. Small wonder Proyas had been so unnerved relaying the Dunyain's murderous instructions.

The fact that he had been a.s.signed a Schoolman only provided further confirmation of his suspicions. Saurnemmi he was called, a young Scarlet initiate with a fey and chronic cough. He had arrived the day after Conphas, accompanied by a sorcerer-of-rank, Inrummi, who departed immediately and inexplicably after inspecting his student's quarters. Saurnemmi, the older sorcerer had told Cnaiur, was to be his link to the Holy War. ”The boy,” as the pompous fool referred to him, was to sleep until noon every day so they might converse through sorcerous dreams. Saurnemmi, in other words, was to be the Dunyain's eyes in Joktha.

Depths! Everywhere he turned-mad, unfathomable depths!

Provoked by Saurnemmi's presence, Cnaiur ordered Tirnemus to gather Conphas and his staff in the Pet.i.tion Hall of the Donjon Palace, the citadel where Cnaiur had made his headquarters. He bid the young sorcerer study their captives from the balcony. Then, once the Exalt-General and his men had a.s.sembled, Cnaiur strode into their very midst, staring hard into various faces and taking pleasure in the way they blanched. The Nansur were such predictable sc.u.m, courageous in excess when armed in mobs, but cowering fawns when outside formation.

He found himself circling Conphas, who stood ramrod straight in full military dress. ”You see your brothers on my arms,” he declared to the others. ”Your wives ...” He spat at the feet of those nearest. ”How it must gall-”

”How many of your brothers,” Conphas cried out, ”do I bear on my my-?” Cnaiur struck him. The Exalt-General sailed backward, tripped to the ground. Cnaiur whirled to the sound of slapping sandals, caught an arcing wrist. He seized his a.s.sailant's cuira.s.s, smashed the man's face against his forehead. The dagger the fool had concealed clattered across the s.h.i.+ning tiles.

These dogs had to be broken! Broken!

The sound of swords whisking from sheaths. Tirnemus's Conriyans suddenly appeared about him, blades outstretched. The Nansur backed away, ashen-faced. Several called out to their Exalt-General, who had rolled onto all fours, spitting blood.

”Make no mistake,” Cnaiur roared over their cries, ”you will heed me!” He brought a boot down on the head of the man jerking at his feet. The ingrate went still, as though wrinkles had been smoothed from his limbs. Hot blood slipped along the cracks between tiles.

A moment of wilting silence.

”Do not,” Cnaiur said, raising his great banded arms, ”make me the ledger of your folly!”

He could almost see them shrink. Suddenly they seemed children-frightened children-beneath the soaring pillars. His heart hammering in exultation, Cnaiur spat again, then raised his face to Saurnemmi, who watched from the gallery above, his adolescent frame bundled in silken crimson. His beard, Cnaiur noted, was little more than a mummer's gag. ”Which one?” he called.

Saurnemmi coughed the inane way he always did, then nodded toward the back of the crowd, at the men milling about General Sompas. ”That one,” he said. ”The one with”-another ceremonial cough, too soft to cut real phlegm-”with the silver bindings about his cuira.s.s.”

Grinning, Cnaiur reached beneath his girdle, extracted his father's Chorae.

Without warning, the slender man to Sompas's right bolted across the polished floors. He was felled after five strides, a shaft jutting from the back of his neck. He cried out, began screaming words that made smoke of sound. His eyes flared bright. But Cnaiur was already upon him ...

Incandescence, searing every surface chalk-white. Men raised arms, cried out.

The Nansur blinked and gaped. Cnaiur turned to them, away from the broken salt-statuary at his feet. He spat and grinned, then strode towering into their midst. He made for Conphas. The Exalt-General sputtered, shrank from his approach, but Cnaiur merely brushed past him, continued wordlessly up the monumental stair. One did not trade words with whipped dogs. It was mummery, Cnaiur knew, but then everything everything was mummery in the end. Another lesson learned at the Dunyain's heel. was mummery in the end. Another lesson learned at the Dunyain's heel.

Afterward, he found himself screaming in his apartments. He understood why, of course: if not for the Scarlet Schoolman's arrival, he would never have thought that Conphas too had a sorcerer. But the why of this understanding escaped him ... It always escaped him.

Was something wrong with him?

Enemies! All about him, enemies! They even dwelt within ...

Even Proyas ... Could he bring himself to break his neck as well?

He sent me to murder myself!

At night, Cnaiur drank-heavily-and the spears that lay hidden beneath every surface were blunted. The terrors, rather, oozed from the cracks in the floor. Despite the censers, the air smelled of yaksh: earth, smoke, and mouldering hides. He could hear Moenghus whisper through the dim interiors ...

More lies. More confusions.

And the bird-the f.u.c.king bird! It seemed a knot, a yanking of all things foul into a single form. His chest tightened simply thinking of it. But of course it couldn't be real. No more than Serwe ...

He told her as much, every night she came to his bed.

Something ... something is wrong with me.

He knew this because he could see himself as the Dunyain saw him. He understood that Moenghus had knocked him from the tracks of his People, that he had spent thirty years kicking through the gra.s.ses searching for the spoor of his own pa.s.sing. For a way back.

Thirty accursed years! These too he understood. The Scylvendi were a forward forward people-as were all people save the Dunyain. They listened to their storytellers. They listened to their hearts. Like dogs, they barked at strangers. They judged honour and shame the way they judged near and far. In their inborn conceit, they made themselves the absolute measure. They could not see that honour, like nearness, simply depended on where one stood. people-as were all people save the Dunyain. They listened to their storytellers. They listened to their hearts. Like dogs, they barked at strangers. They judged honour and shame the way they judged near and far. In their inborn conceit, they made themselves the absolute measure. They could not see that honour, like nearness, simply depended on where one stood.

That it was a lie.

Moenghus had lured him onto different ground. How could his kinsmen not think him an obscenity when his voice came to them from darknesses unseen? How could he rediscover their tracks when all grounds had been trampled? He could never be of the People, not after Moenghus. He could never think or curse himself back to their savage innocence. He had been a fool to try ... Ignorance was ever the iron of certainty, for it was as blind to itself as sleep. It was the absence of questions that made answers absolute-not knowledge! To ask, this was what Moenghus had taught him. Simply to ask ...

”Why follow this track and not another?”

”Because the Voice demands it.”

”Why follow this Voice and not another?”

That everything everything could be overthrown so easily. That all custom and conviction could lay so close to the brink. That outrage and accusation could be the only true foundations ... All of it-everything could be overthrown so easily. That all custom and conviction could lay so close to the brink. That outrage and accusation could be the only true foundations ... All of it-everything that was man that was man-perched on swords and screams.

Why? cried his every step. cried his every step. Why? Why? cried his every word. cried his every word. Why? Why? cried his every breath. cried his every breath.

For some reason ... There must be some reason.

But why? Why?

The world itself had become his rebuke! He was no longer of the Land, but he could not beat the Steppe from the cant of his limbs. He was no longer of the People, but he could not wash his father from his blood. He cared nothing for the ways of the Scylvendi-nothing!-yet still they howled within him, railed and railed. He was not of the People! Yet still his degradations choked him. Still his longings clawed at his heart. Wutrim! Shame!

Absent things! How could absent things remain?

Each time he shaved, his thumb unerringly found the swazond puckered about his throat. He would track its ginger course. Something ... I'm forgetting something Something ... I'm forgetting something ... ...

There were two pasts; Cnaiur understood that now. There was the past that men remembered, and there was the past that determined, determined, and rarely if ever were they the same. All men stood in thrall of the latter. and rarely if ever were they the same. All men stood in thrall of the latter.

And knowing this made them insane.

Timing. Few things did Ikurei Conphas ponder more.

The Lords of the Holy War might begrudge them these lands, but the Nansur still held the keys. Joktha was an old Imperial possession with old Imperial ways. Familiar with the perils of governing conquered peoples, long-dead Nansur planners had excavated hundreds of tunnels in hundreds of different cities. Walls, after all, could be retaken; corpses could only be burned.

Nevertheless, escaping the city had proven far more stressful than Conphas had expected. Though he was loath to admit it, the incident with the Scylvendi in the Donjon Palace had rattled him-almost as much as losing Darastius, his Saik Caller, had inconvenienced him. The savage had struck struck him, batted him to the floor as easily as a woman or child. And against all expectation, Conphas had been paralyzed-utterly incapacitated-with fear. Lean, wild with unnameable hungers, Cnaiur urs Skiotha had seemed the very reaver wors.h.i.+pped by his people. He even him, batted him to the floor as easily as a woman or child. And against all expectation, Conphas had been paralyzed-utterly incapacitated-with fear. Lean, wild with unnameable hungers, Cnaiur urs Skiotha had seemed the very reaver wors.h.i.+pped by his people. He even stank stank of the Steppe, as though somehow, bound within that astounding frame, lay earth ... Scylvendi earth. of the Steppe, as though somehow, bound within that astounding frame, lay earth ... Scylvendi earth.