Demon King Read online

  His voice was as annoying as his laugh, and now it rasped across the room: “It’s like the Wheel, don’t you know. Last year, they were riding high, this year … Well, mayhap it’ll teach a bit of humility.” Mijurtin suddenly realized how his voice carried, and looked about wildly. In one of his hands, a biscuit dripped unnoticed sauce.

  My temper snapped, but before I could stalk across the room Marán was there. Her face was white, set. “You. Get out. Get out now!” Mijurtin sputtered. I was halfway across the floor. He saw me coming, his eyes widened, and he squealed and ran like a terrified hog seeing a hunter.

  The orchestra hastily began another melody, but Marán held up her hand and there was instant silence. “All of you. Out! The party’s over!”

  Marán, blind in her rage, took the white linen tablecloth under the punch bowl in both hands and pulled. That crystal bowl took two strong serving men to carry, but it weighed nothing against her anger, and the bowl skidded across the mahogany, crashed to the floor, and exploded. Red punch like blood shot across the polished wood dance floor, and the few guests scurried for their coats. The storm beyond could never match the one here.

  Marán spun to the orchestra. “That’s all! You can leave, too!” The musicians gathered their instruments.

  Suddenly the thought came.

  I held up my hand. “No,” I said quietly, but my voice carried across the room. “Play ‘River-Swirl, River-Turn.’ ”

  That song was the one played by a luxury ferry’s band the night Marán and I first made love. It had taken some gold, more work, and a great deal of listening to discover the name of the tune, but it had been worth it when I’d had it played at our first anniversary by the same nautical musicians.

  The musicians looked at me awkwardly. One, then another began playing. Marán stood motionless next to the red pool. Servants with towels hovered nearby, but were reluctant to approach.

  “Countess Agramónte,” I said, “would you honor me with this dance?”

  She said nothing, but slowly came into my arms. As we began to dance, I could hear the last guest hastening away; then there was nothing but the music and the scuff of our feet on the floor.

  “I love you,” I said.

  The dam burst then, and Marán began sobbing uncontrollably against my chest. I picked her up, and she weighed nothing, and I carried her out of the ballroom and up the stairs to our bedroom. I pulled the coverlet back on our huge bed, laid her on it, and slowly removed her clothes. She lay motionless, her eyes fixed on mine. I undressed.

  “Would you wish me to make love to you?” She made no reply, but lifted her legs and parted her thighs.

  I knelt over her and ran my tongue in and out of her body. Her breathing came a little faster, but there was no other response. I kissed her breasts, then her lips. They were unmoving.

  Not knowing what else to do, and barely aroused myself, I slid my cock into her. I might as well have been making love to a sleeping woman. I withdrew. She still said nothing, but rolled on her side, away from me, bringing her knees up almost to her chest.

  I gently placed the comforter over her, then crawled into bed. Tentatively, I put one arm around her waist. She was motionless.

  After a time, I suppose I slept.

  • • •

  I awoke, and it was close to dawn. Rain spattered on the window, and the room was cold. Marán was at a window, staring out. She was naked, and seemed not to feel the chill. Without turning, she sensed I was awake.

  “Fuck them,” she said quietly. “Fuck all of them. I — We don’t need them.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve had enough,” she said flatly. “I’m going back to Irrigon. Come with me or stay, whatever’s your pleasure.”

  Somehow, that pronouncement seemed to calm Marán. She allowed me to lead her back to bed, and almost instantly went to sleep. But I could not. I lay awake until gray light illumined the room. Should I go with her to Irrigon, the great castle on the river that ran through the vast family estates? Anger grew at the thought. No! I’d not run from a fight or a battle yet, and wouldn’t this time. I’d stay here, by Isa, by Vachan, by Tanis! Sooner or later the emperor would come to his senses. Sooner or later, he must.

  I dressed and went down to eat. The servants must have worked the night through, for there was no sign whatever of the disastrous carouse.

  Marán woke around noon, called for her servants, and ordered them to pack. She kissed me farewell hard, telling me I was a fool and I should come with her. But I didn’t feel any sincerity in her words. Perhaps it would be well for us to be separate for a brief time. Perhaps she blamed me for what had happened.

  I watched her carriage, and her outriders, vanish into the hard-blowing storm, and tried to convince myself these problems would quickly pass, and all would be as before. But my thoughts were hollow, and my heart was as empty as the palace.

  • • •

  I thought of writing Tenedos directly, requesting a meeting, a hearing if he wished. I tried composing the note, but threw half a dozen drafts away. My father had taught me the soldier’s old credo: Don’t complain, don’t explain. So I wrote nothing.

  I did not, however, sit sulking. Since boredom is such a large part of a soldier’s lot, it’s good there are hundreds of ways for him to stay busy. One of the less comfortable realizations I had in Kallio was how poor a shape I was in. So I rose an hour before dawn, did setting up exercises, then ran for another hour. I breakfasted on fruit and grain, then took instruction in one or another fighting skill for another hour — bow, spear, club, dagger, sword, it mattered not. Karjan, grumbling, trained with me.

  Then I went to my study, laid out maps of famous battles, and refought them, generally from the side of the loser. I hated this, just as I hate most exercises that stretch the brain more than the body, but if I was in fact still a tribune, I’d better be able to think like one.

  My midday meal would be meat, barely cooked, or fish, frequently raw, and green vegetables from one of my greenhouses. After lunch, I’d saddle either Lucan or Rabbit and ride for an hour or two, out from the Water Palace to Manco Heath, where I allowed my mount a gallop. The pounding of the hooves cleared my brain and took my thoughts away from my troubles. At dusk, I’d swim for an hour, then have a simple dinner — bread, cheese, and pickled vegetables my general choice. I would go for a walk to digest, then to bed.

  If I’d worked hard enough, sleep came. But all too often I’d toss and turn for hours. I’d never had trouble sleeping before, and in fact was proud that like any good cavalryman I could sleep anywhere, including the saddle. I was desperately lonely, but couldn’t bring myself to flee to Irrigon. Not yet.

  Several weeks passed like this. I had visitors — Yonge twice, Kutulu once, then a stranger.

  Erivan, my majordomo, came and said Baron Khwaja Sala awaited my pleasure. Most people think a majordomo holds his position because of his ability to run a great household without his employers being aware of his silent, efficient mechanisms; plus an appropriate cold arrogance toward the unwanted. But there’s a third, most important talent: knowledge of almost everything. If a guest wishes a certain exotic fruit from his homeland, the majordomo should know which marketplace might have the item. As a better example, he should have known who in the hells this strangely named baron was.

  “He is the Maisirian ambassador to the court of the emperor.” I raised an eyebrow, not afraid of showing ignorance, or any other failing, to a man who probably knew my weaknesses better than I. “He refused to state his business, sir.”

  “Please take him to the green study, see if he requires refreshment, and tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

  That would make it easier for Kutulu’s still-unknown agent to spy on us, since I had no intent of meeting with any Maisirian without witnesses.

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Do you know anything more of the man?”

  “I only know that he has the reputation of being one of King Bairan’
s shrewdest counselors, and reputedly is his closest adviser.”

  “I see,” I said, although I certainly didn’t, and thoughtfully made my way to the study.

  Baron Sala was tall, almost as tall as I, in his sixties and very siender. He wore long mustaches and had the most sorrowful eyes, as if he’d seen every evil, every bit of duplicity the world could offer, and nothing could surprise him any longer. Once the amenities were finished, I asked why he’d come.

  “I am representing not only my king, but our army’s high command,” he said. “One of the earliest posts you held was in the Kingdom of Kait when the Seer Tenedos was the Rule of Ten’s ambassador there, am I not correct?”

  “Such is common knowledge.”

  “My master and his officers need to know everything you remember about Kait. Those bandits raid south into Maisir as often as they trouble Numantia, and it’s King Bairan’s mind to put an end to their nonsense for good and all. That’s why he requested I visit you and inquire about your interest in bringing peace.”

  “What form,” I asked, “would King Bairan like this advice in? I’m neither a historian nor a scribe, and for me to labor out an account of what happened, let alone the ‘everything’ he evidently wishes … well, we could both be quite aged before the work is complete.”

  The baron smiled. “Such was my thought when the courier arrived with my lord’s wishes, and so I requested further elaboration. Ideally, he would be delighted if you could somehow attend a conference with our high command on the problem.”

  “Where? In Maisir?”

  “I doubt,” Sala said dryly, “if your emperor would be thrilled to have an enclave of our generals arrive here in Nicias.”

  “Let’s begin with the easiest of problems,” I asked. “How would I get to Maisir? The commonest route lies through Kait, and since that murderous bastard Achim Baber Fergana still sits the throne in Sayana, and would be delighted to see me, preferably impaled on a stake, I doubt that’s a feasible route.”

  “That, as you said, is the easiest of problems. There is a longer route that your army already knows of, that goes through Kallio and crosses into one of the other Border States. It’s desert, and there are bandits, but it’s passable for small units, if long abandoned. We could have a contingent of Negaret — those are the soldiers who patrol what we call the Wild Country — meet you at the border.”

  “That’s one problem solved,” I said. “Now let’s address a bigger one. Do you think the emperor would allow one of his tribunes to travel abroad?”

  “I don’t know. But, if I may speak frankly, I understand your star is a bit dimmed in the emperor’s eyes, so he might not object too strongly. I could make subtle inquiries, if you’re interested.”

  There were advantages to the idea, not the least being I’d be out of this beautiful trap of a palace and away from the whispers and snickers accompanying any nobleman’s fall. It would also give me time to puzzle out just what was going wrong between Marán and myself and determine what I should do to change.

  To take the field, to be away from all of these words and buildings, into the hard, clean wilderness and the company of men who said and lived what they believed … I smiled a bit wistfully. The baron looked politely inquiring.

  “I was just thinking,” I said, “how I envy your officers and your prospective campaign. There is a grudge between myself and the Achim Fergana I’d like to resolve.”

  “That is interesting,” the baron said. “King Bairan added a note that the ideal solution would be for you to join our campaign. We’d arrange proper recompense, both for you and the emperor, since he’d be deprived of your services for, oh, perhaps a year, perhaps longer, and of course you’d serve at your present level of authority, perhaps as a rauri, a commander of the advance guard.”

  “That’s an idea I can’t even think of. In fact,” I said, “I’m probably coming very close to violating the spirit of my oath in discussing the matter at all.”

  “My apologies,” the baron said, rising. “I’m very glad I took the time to meet you, Damastes. I expected little to come of this, and was a bit afraid you might be angered. I’m delighted you’re at the least interested. Should I request an audience with Emperor Tenedos?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I’ve got to consider things most carefully.”

  “I surely understand that,” Sala said. “I’ll wait until I hear further from you before taking any action. Feel free to discuss this with your wife and fellows. We don’t want anyone to think King Bairan is considering anything even vaguely unacceptable to your emperor.”

  “Of course not.”

  After Baron Sala left, I went into the green study’s spy chamber, to see, from simple curiosity, who Kutulu’s man — or woman — was. The chamber was empty, although I touched my hand to the wood around the spyhole, and found it warm, as if someone’s forehead had pressed against it.

  I went to my library and made notes of exactly what had happened, word for word, while it was still fresh. Then I took out a fresh sheet of stationery:

  To the emperor Laish Tenedos, and for his attention only. From his Most Loyal Servant, Tribune Damastes á Cimabue.

  Sir, I greet you, and offer my deepest respects

  I am reporting on a meeting that took place this day between the Maisirian ambassador, Baron Khwaja Sala, and myself …

  Since I’m hardly a master of the written word, and wanted my report to the emperor to be precise, it was late when I sent my report off to the palace. I thought of eating, but wasn’t hungry, my mind a roiling mass of questions and wonderments. I drank a glass of warm milk, hoping it would make me sleepy, but it didn’t.

  I listened to the wind roar across the treetops of the palace grounds, and watched the lashing branches, then decided I’d lie down, and perhaps the proximity of pillows, soft cotton sheets, and warm blankets would bring solace, though I knew I was deluding myself and rest would be a long time coming this night.

  • • •

  Sleeplessness saved my life.

  The man should have killed me the quickest way he could. I’d been taught the fine art of killing an enemy with any tool that presented itself. The teacher, a scarred infantry color-sergeant, said too many soldiers fall in love with a single weapon. It could be a particular sword, or even a style of weaponry, and truthfully I’ve known men who nearly panicked if they were told to use a spear instead of their favored saber, or a dagger instead of an ax.

  The man used the wind’s blast to cover his springing the window catch of my bedroom. Barely opening the window, he slipped inside. If he’d had a sword, knife, or even a throwing-dart, and attacked the moment he found his footing, I should have died. Instead, he took the long yellow silk cord from around his neck, the cord the Tovieti stranglers loved, and crept toward the lump under the bedclothes.

  He had had a second to realize the lump was nothing but hastily bundled pillows when I came from behind, hands clenched, smashing sideways across on the nape of his neck with all my strength. He contorted backward against me, and I smelt his bowels emptying as he died.

  I spun out of the way, toward where my sword belt hung, and saved my life a second time, for I hadn’t seen the strangler’s backup come into the room. She was very good, slender blade burning across my ribs. She recovered and jump-lunged toward the naked man in front of her.

  She was good, she was fast, perhaps faster than I, but she wasn’t a back-alley brawler, rather she was used to the refinements of the fighting school. She yelped as I kicked a chair into her, sending her stumbling. Then she heard the dry whisper as my sword came out of its sheath. I lunged, and she parried. We both recovered, circling, eyes and minds on nothing but our blades, which reflected the flickering light from windblown torches outside.

  I heard, but didn’t let myself to respond, shouts, screams, crashing, coming from other places in the palace.

  Circling, circling. Her blade darted, and I smashed it aside and struck, pinking her thigh above her kn
ee. She grunted and flicked her sword’s point at my eyes, and I barely ducked back. She stamp-lunged forward, and I went low, under her thrust, and was nearly spitted for my bravado.

  Again we parried, moving back, forth, looking for the opening. I heard her muttering, paid no mind. Her silhouette shimmered, and I realized magic was in the arena. She wavered, almost became invisible, and I snapped her concentration with a high cut toward her head. The spell broke, and I faced a solid, slender figure once more, moving, always moving.

  She dropped her guard, but I was too wise, ignoring the feint and lunging under her blade, her guard, and I felt resistance as my sword slid into her chest, just under her rib cage. The woman said “Oh,” in a mildly shocked voice, and dropped her sword. It clattered on the floor. I freed my blade.

  She touched a hand to her side, lifted it, and even in the dimness we could both see the blood staining her fingers. She said “Oh” once more, but this time as if she had finally understood something obvious, and there was no strength in her knees, her legs — they buckled. Before her body thudded to the floor, Saionji had taken her back to the Wheel.

  Another window smashed, and two men, both wearing black, jumped into the room. They saw me, shouted, and ran forward. Both were armed with short stabbing spears. I brushed one spear aside with my blade, and shoulder-blocked that man into his mate. They stumbled backward, flailing, and I ran the first through.

  A door crashed open behind me, and I thought I was doomed, but had no time for anything but the man with the spear. He died with my blade through an eye, and I pulled my sword out, spinning toward the new threat, but too late, too late …

  Karjan was there, saber in hand, and flanking him were half a dozen others from my household, armed with everything from candlesticks to a seaman’s cutlass I’d never seen before. “Fucking Tovieti,” he shouted.

  “How many?” I forced calm.