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 shining 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 worshipped 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 worshipped 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.

Conphas had thought himself dead. Of course, he realized this was precisely the reaction the barbarian wanted. Frightened men, as the Galeoth said, thought with their skins. But for some reason, knowing knowing this had made precious little difference. A thought-numbing dread had dogged every turn of their escape. Waiting for nightfall. Pa.s.sing through the streets to the necropolis. Excavating the entrance to the tunnels. Only when he and Sompas crossed the River Oras did breath come to him easily-and even then ... this had made precious little difference. A thought-numbing dread had dogged every turn of their escape. Waiting for nightfall. Pa.s.sing through the streets to the necropolis. Excavating the entrance to the tunnels. Only when he and Sompas crossed the River Oras did breath come to him easily-and even then ...

Now, accompanied by a small band of Kidruhil, they waited at the designated rendezvous, an overgrown cairn located near the heart of what had been Imbeyan's hunting preserve, several miles to the south and east of Joktha. The site had been Conphas's choice-as it should be, since he he inevitably would occupy the heights of the drama to follow. inevitably would occupy the heights of the drama to follow.

A series of t.i.tanic gusts broke and fumbled across the earth. The ragged evergreens answered, bending back like girls with their faces to the wind. Winter detritus flew, caught up in the sweeping of invisible skirts. Distant treetops shook, as though concealing some monstrous feud beneath their bowers. Everything, it seemed, had conspired to create the sensation of depth. So often the world seemed flat to Conphas, like something painted across his eyes. Not so today, he mused. Today would be deep deep.

Sompas's chestnut snorted, shook its head and mane to shoo a wasp. The General cursed in the petulant way of those who keep score with animals. Suddenly Conphas found himself mourning the loss of Martemus. Sompas was useful-even now, his pickets combed the countryside, searching for the Scylvendi's spies-but his value lay more in his availability than his quality. He was an able tool, not a foil foil as Martemus had been. And all great men required foils. as Martemus had been. And all great men required foils.

Especially on occasions such as this.

If only he could forget the accursed Scylvendi! What was it about the man? Even now, in some small corner of his soul, a beacon fire burned at the ready in case of his return. It was as though the barbarian had somehow stained him with the force of his presence, and now it clung, like an odour that must be scrubbed rather than rinsed away. Never had any man possessed such an effect on him.

Perhaps this, Conphas mused, was what sin sin felt like for the faithful. The intimation of something greater watching. The sense of disapproval, at once immense and ineffable, as near as fog and yet as distant as the world's rim. It was as though anger itself possessed eyes. felt like for the faithful. The intimation of something greater watching. The sense of disapproval, at once immense and ineffable, as near as fog and yet as distant as the world's rim. It was as though anger itself possessed eyes.

Perhaps faith was a kind of stain as well...a kind of odour.

He laughed aloud, not caring what Sompas or the others thought. His old self had returned, and he liked liked his old self ... very much. his old self ... very much.

"Exalt-General?" Sompas said.

Biaxi fool. Always so desperate to be on the inside inside of things. of things.

"They come," Conphas said, nodding to the distance.

A band of riders, perhaps twenty-strong, had cleared the bowers of a cypress stand and were filing down the opposing slope, picking their way between the hummocks that jutted from the pasture like the moles on a dog's chin. Affecting boredom, Conphas stole a glance at his small retinue, saw the first brows furrow in confusion and concern. He almost cackled aloud. What was he up to, their G.o.dlike Exalt-General?

This day had been planned long in advance. The Prince of Atrithau had wasted no time securing his authority over the Holy War. Whatever spleen the Orthodox yet possessed had been gutted by his victory over the Padirajah. Conphas still blinked in wonder thinking of that day. That such ... certainty certainty could take root in such desperation. Even his own men had fought with the fury of the possessed. could take root in such desperation. Even his own men had fought with the fury of the possessed.

Conphas had played his role and, given the narrow margins involved, had no doubt been instrumental to the Holy War's success. But any fool could see his days as a Man of the Tusk were numbered. So he had taken ... measures. Arranging this a.s.signation through Cironji intermediaries was one of them. So too was secreting a company of Kidruhil in the wilds of Enathpaneah. Of course, he had told no one of his intentions, least of all Sompas. The long view could not be trusted to those without vision. They must first blunder across the frontier.

"Who?" Sompas asked of no one in particular. The others likewise peered, and though they sat stiff and still in their saddles, Conphas knew they clawed their insides in antic.i.p.ation, like children hankering for honeycakes. The fact that the approaching riders were dressed as Fanim meant nothing. With the exception of the Nansur, all Men of the Tusk dressed like Fanim. Conphas could not help but wonder what Martemus would think. Life had seemed more careful when reflected in his shrewd eyes. Less reckless.

"Exalt-General!" Sompas abruptly cried. He made for his sword- "Hold!" Conphas barked. "Draw no weapons!"

"But they're Kianene Kianene!" the General exclaimed.

f.u.c.king Biaxi. Small wonder they never managed to seize the Mantle.

Conphas spurred forward, wheeling his mount about to face them. "Who but the wicked," wicked," he cried, "would cast out the righteous?" he cried, "would cast out the righteous?"

To a man they stared at him, stupefied. They were all Orthodox, which meant they despised the Prince of Atrithau as much as he. But their resolve was born of mundane earth, not heaven. Conphas knew he could never ask too much of them-the bag of possible acts had no bottom when it came to men-but he could always ask too soon soon. These men would murder their mothers for him ...

It was simply a matter of timing.

Conphas smiled as one who had shared their many straits. He shook his head as if to say, So here we find ourselves again So here we find ourselves again.

"I've marched you to the frontiers of Galeoth. I've led you into the heart of the dreaded Scylvendi Steppe. I've taken you to the very threshold of Kian's destruction! Kian Kian. How many battles have we fought together? La.s.sentas. Doerna. Kiyuth. Mengedda. Anwurat. Tertae ... How many victories victories?"

He shrugged, as though at a loss how to make the obvious self-evident.

"And now look at us ... Look at us Look at us! Imprisoned. The lands of our fathers stolen. The Holy War in the grip of a False Prophet. Inri Sejenus forgotten! You know as well as I the demands of War. The time has come for you to decide whether you're the equal of those demands."

Another gust wheeled across the slope, whisking through gra.s.ses, buffeting branches, forcing him to squint against the grit. "Your hearts, hearts, my brothers. Ask them." my brothers. Ask them."

It all came to their hearts, in the end. Even though Conphas had no clue what "heart," used in this sense, actually meant, he did know that it could be trusted, like any other well-trained dog. He smiled inwardly, realizing the issue had been decided long before he had spoken. They were already committed. The genius of most men lay in finding reasons after after their actions. The heart was ever self-serving, especially when the beliefs served involved sacrifice. This was why the great general always sought consent in the instant of commission. Momentum did the rest. their actions. The heart was ever self-serving, especially when the beliefs served involved sacrifice. This was why the great general always sought consent in the instant of commission. Momentum did the rest.

Timing.

"You are the Lion," Sompas said.

Then, as though baring their necks to the executioner, the others lowered their faces and held them there, chins to the red-lacquered breastplates they wore over their chain hauberks. They let a long moment pa.s.s. A jnanic sign of deep and reverent respect.

Even worship.

Grinning, Conphas wheeled his mount to the sound of approaching hors.e.m.e.n. There was a wild, unbridled air about the way they reined to a halt before him, as though the merest of whims had stayed their charge. Despite the many colours of their khalats and the glint of their corselets, they seemed shadowy and threatening. It was more than the leather of their dark desert skin, or the oiled l.u.s.tre of their long-braided goatees. There was a haggard ferocity to their look. Their eyes gleamed with the manic resolve of put-upon peoples.

A speechless moment pa.s.sed, filled with the grunts and snorts of warhorses. Conphas almost laughed at the thought of his uncle confronting their ancestral foe in such a way. A mole bargaining with falcons ...

As opposed to a lion.

"Fanayal ab Kascamandri," he said in a clear and resonant voice. "Padirajah."

The young man he addressed bowed his head far too low; Fanayal outranked all save Xerius or Maithanet now.

"Ikurei Conphas," the Padirajah of Kian said, his voice rich with lilting Kianene cadences. There was kohl about his dark eyes. "Emperor."

When the rain stopped, he left her slumbering in their bed. Serwe, her face as perfect as it was false.

Cnaiur wandered from his apartments onto the terrace, breathed deep the cavernous after-storm air. Joktha and her narrow ways extended into the distance, subdued beneath the clearing sky. It resembled a vast amphitheatre, its tiers smashed and rutted. He stared for a time at Conphas's compound on the far and opposite slopes, pondered it as though it were an uncharted sh.o.r.e.

A burst of flapping startled him. Shadows flitted across the surrounding pools of water. Fleeing, sand-doves swept above, winging across the crescent moon then jerking downward as though bound by strings to the terrace. Trilling in alarm, they vanished below.

A voice rasped from his periphery, "You perplex me, Scylvendi."

Demons, Cnaiur now knew, had many guises. They were everywhere, mauling the world with their anarchic appet.i.tes, outraging with their impersonations. Birds. Lovers. Slaves ...

And most of all, him him.

"Kill the Ikurei," the voice keened, "and the dogs will be loosed. Why do you stay your hand?"

He turned to the abomination. To the bird.

Certain peoples, Cnaiur knew, revered and reviled certain birds. The Nansur had their holy peac.o.c.ks, the Cepalorans their prairie grouses. All Inrithi butchered kites and falcons in their rites of war. For the Scylvendi, however, birds were nothing more than signs of weather, wolves, and seasons. That, and a food of last resort.