Demon King Read online

  We moved in the regulation forced march pattern: trot for an hour, walk your horse for an hour, walk beside your mount for half an hour, rest for half an hour, then trot once more. Since we were not in hostile territory, we started an hour before dawn, and ended an hour after sunset, more or less. More or less because, in consideration of my rank, each day’s journey ended at an inn, where fresh horses waited. The inns were all outside of a town, and quiet. Since the emperor didn’t want to advertise my coming, we ate in our chambers or in a snug, if the inn had one. At our first stop I saw broadsheets that screamed the reason for the emperor’s summons:

  Numantian soldiers massacred!

  A Maisirian ambush!

  TREACHERY IN THE BORDER LANDS!

  NO SURVIVORS!

  200 of Our Bravest Cavalry Butchered Without Mercy!

  EMPEROR REQUIRES EXPLANATION!

  Harsh note sent to King Bairan

  NUMANTIA DEMANDS REVENGE!

  I scanned the broadsheets for details. There wasn’t much more than what the headlines yammered. One sheet at least told me where the tragedy had occurred: “not far” from the city of Zante. It took some moments for me to remember where Zante was. I’d expected the catastrophe to have taken place in Kait, or the Urshi Highlands, where fighting was common. Zante was leagues to the east of Kait, just across the border from the mostly desert Numantian province of Dumyat. What were our soldiers doing there?

  Another question I had was how was it known, if there were no survivors, the killers were Maisirian? All the Border Lands had adequate supplies of homegrown bandits. I guessed imperial sorcery must have given that answer.

  Another question came to me: A normally sized troop (not company, as the always inaccurate broadsheets would term it) of cavalry was around a hundred men. This unit must have been specially augmented. I sought in vain to see what unit had been involved in the action. Naturally, the broadsheets either thought this didn’t matter, or their scribes had been too lazy or ignorant to ask the proper questions.

  If the facts were slight, the stories running around the inn’s taproom beyond our snug weren’t: Of course the Maisirians had done it … probably tortured any wounded … Someone had it on good authority that the most evil magic had been used to spring the trap … just like Maisirians, treacherous sons of bitches that they were … The emperor ought not to screw around with diplomatic notes but send the army across the border — ten, nay a hundred, for every one of our brave lads … Cheers and set up another round … Probably the same conversation, or more correctly mindless raging, was going on in every inn of Numantia.

  I asked Captain Sendraka what he knew of the disaster, and he said very little — his regiment had been alerted after the disaster and he’d been immediately sent to Irrigon.

  Marán wondered why I hadn’t been summoned by heliograph, and Sendraka replied that the weather had been too chancy around Nicias to depend on those devices.

  “What happens next?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t say … but all the first-line regiments were on stand to when I left Nicias,” Sendraka said.

  “Will it be war?”

  Sendraka shook his head. I didn’t know, either, but feared the worst, and reading my face, Marán knew my thoughts. Then I understood, perhaps, why she’d wanted to come with me. If I was to go to war again, she wanted our love rebuilt, until it flamed as high as it once had, and I loved her for that.

  We rode on, and each night heard more anger, more rage, from the people around us. As we drew closer to the capital, we passed army posts. They were at full readiness, gates guarded by squads instead of single sentries, parade grounds alive with drilling men.

  We rode into Nicias after nightfall. The streets, as always in the City of Lights, were alive, but there were so many uniformed groups galloping about we went unnoticed.

  We went directly to a rear entrance to the Imperial Palace and were met by Emperor Tenedos’s aide, once-Captain, now-Domina Amer Othman. I thanked Captain Sendraka and let Othman lead us through secluded passageways to private apartments.

  A lavish meal was already laid out, and beside it was a note from the emperor:

  Welcome. Please wait until summoned.

  T

  As if we had any choice. Marán had gone to the closets, muttering what she’d do about clothes. She opened one and gasped. On the racks hung two dozen of her favorite garments. In cupboards were undergarments and everything else she’d need to appear at court.

  Another closet and cabinet held clothes for me: all dress uniforms. I would not be presenting myself as Baron Agramónte.

  “How did he know what to pick out?” she wondered, holding up the sleeve of one dress.

  “He’s a magician.”

  “But he’s also a man,” she protested. “Men never know things like that.”

  “Maybe emperor-type men do?”

  She just shook her head and went into the bath chamber. I heard the sound of splashing. I lifted dish covers until I found something finger-sized and, munching a small, spiced, meat-filled pastry, wandered around the apartments. All was gold, silver, cut gems, or the richest, hand-rubbed woods. I could have quartered a company of infantry in these rooms, and wondered just how long we’d be kept in seclusion. There were several bookcases, and I examined their contents. Unsurprisingly, all of the volumes dealt with Maisir. There was no doubt whatsoever why the emperor had summoned me.

  • • •

  We spent four days in these apartments, seeing no one except smiling, faceless servants. We ate, slept, and grew increasingly nervous. Early on the morning of the fifth day Domina Othman requested we be ready for an imperial audience after the noon meal, and for me to wear my medals. At least an hour before they came for us, we were ready. They escorted us to the main entrance of the palace, as if we were just arriving.

  Trumpets blared, flunkies clamored our names and ranks, and we entered the great hall, which was packed with the nobility of Numantia. The entrance was on a higher level than the main room, a huge circular chamber on several levels with the throne at the far end. We started down the sweeping staircase. The crowd surged toward us, smiles spread as carefully as facial powder and rouge. Obviously Marán and I were once more in imperial favor. A lackey bellowed an imperial “request” — that our “friends” hold their welcomes until later, for imperial business of the greatest import was about to begin.

  The court yammer stilled for an instant, then grew louder and louder as the court speculated on what could be happening. I noted the Maisirian ambassador, Baron Sala, in the throng, waiting with an utterly impenetrable expression.

  I saw the emperor’s sisters, Dalny and Leh, one with a handsome, foppish army officer barely out of his teens, the other with a bearded dandy who’d come to the end of four marriages now, each time having improved either his title or wealth. Both women wore black, but their gowns were revealingly cut and suggested the sisters were no more in real mourning for their brother Reufern than if they’d been naked with kohl rubbed on their nipples.

  What the broadsheets had termed the “Maisirian Emergency” appeared to have made no impression at all on these fools. I remembered how I’d despised the wastrels who’d buzzed around the Rule of Ten, and realized they now thought the emperor was an even bigger jar of honey. Was this why we’d undertaken treason and overthrown that pack of imbeciles?

  Marán leaned close. “If we were brought to Nicias in such secrecy, why this?” she whispered.

  I didn’t know, but assumed the Emperor Tenedos, a man of infinite subtlety and deviousness, had a reason. Once again trumpets blared, and this time the fanfare was twice as loud and lasted twice as long. The noblemen and -women, recognizing the voice of their master, stopped chattering in mid-syllable and, as one, turned to the throne. A door opened, and the emperor entered.

  Seer Laish Tenedos wore something that might have been a uniform — a simple collarless raw silk tunic in dark green, black flaring riding breeches, and black kne
e boots, with a matching belt. His crown wasn’t the simple, traditional badge I’d ennobled him with almost nine years earlier. This was new, elaborately figured and worked, with gems of many colors. Perhaps he needed a more ornate symbol, since he’d made Numantia into a greater kingdom.

  Perhaps.

  He seated himself on the throne, picked up a tall scepter that was also new, and rapped three times. Then he rose, and his voice, magically enlarged, boomed: “You all know of the outrage committed by the Maisirian Army against an innocent party of Numantian soldiers on a routine peacekeeping task well within our claimed borders.

  “I told you I sent a sharp note to King Bairan, ruler of Maisir, protesting what his army has done and demanding a full apology and reparations for shedding the blood of our finest young men.

  “This morning I received a reply, a response so shocking that I spent some hours considering what I should do. His reply, in essence, mocked me and all Numantia, saying he had no knowledge of any such event, and if something of that nature had occurred, no doubt the response was quite justified, in keeping with the recent warlike posture of Numantia!”

  Tenedos’s voice dripped scorn. I saw, but didn’t understand, the shocked expression on Ambassador Sala’s face.

  “Warlike posture?” Tenedos cried out. “The man is a villain, a base villain of the worst sort! Time after time I’ve ordered our soldiers to ignore provocation from the Maisirian Army on our borders. I’ve even kept from you, my own people, clear evidence that Maisir has had agents operating within our frontiers and has been agitating and fomenting unrest!

  “For this I apologize, and beg understanding, for I wished to prevent turmoil from your own breasts, hoping I could maintain order and peace. But no more. This last outrage pushes our two kingdoms close to confrontation.

  “As I thought about what I should do in this matter, I remembered that our finest soldier, the first tribune himself, Damastes á Cimabue, Baron Damastes of Ghazi, Count Agramónte, has recently returned from his estates, and so I summoned him to the palace. We spent some hours discussing the problem and are in full agreement.

  “I … we all … wish peace for Numantia. But the shield of peace can only protect when there’s a strong arm, well armored and armed, behind that protection. I’ve therefore commanded our army built up, and for our forces to be ready for any development. Strong times require strong measures.

  “I have chosen First Tribune á Cimabue for a special command, a command I cannot at present detail, but which supersedes all other ranks in our army. First Tribune á Cimabue now has call on any unit, any officer, any man for whatever is needed in these extraordinary times.”

  I was grateful that the emperor’s first statement had given me a few seconds to mask my face. Now, as the cheering began, no doubt encouraged by the emperor’s toadies in the throng, all I had to do was bow deeply.

  “I have prepared a reply to King Bairan’s insolence,” the emperor went on. “It will be given to the Maisirian ambassador within minutes.

  “I request Tribune á Cimabue join me in my chambers, since information vital to our strategic position has just been received. That is all!”

  Trumpets thundered and the crowd bellowed approval. Tenedos stood watching for a moment, an odd, small smile quirking his lips. Then he pivoted and strode off.

  • • •

  The door to the emperor’s reception rooms came open, and Baron Sala stalked out, face tight with anger. He saw me, and his expression smoothed into blankness. He didn’t speak, but nodded as he stalked past.

  The emperor’s aide rose from behind his desk, but the door opened again, and Tenedos stood there. “Come in, my friend. Come in,” he said, his voice hearty. He closed the door, and indicated a seat, far across the huge room, on a divan. He sat beside me. On the end table was a decanter of brandy and glasses. He toyed with the stopper, then sighed.

  “They never tell you about the times when you’d better not drink, do they?” He smiled wryly. “Sometimes I wish I had your discipline and never wished alcohol.”

  “It isn’t discipline, sir. To me it tastes like shit.”

  He laughed. “I suppose,” he said, “I should apologize for those slight falsehoods out there.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t, do I? So instead of an apology, would you like an explanation?”

  “Gladly.”

  “I summoned you at the same time as I sent the note off to King Bairan because I knew his reply would be sharp. It was the only possible response to my message. Actually, we still haven’t received his answer. That was why Baron Sala stormed out of here, after using every diplomatic term for liar.” He shrugged. “Lies in the service of your country are hardly sins. I know what Bairan will say, and I realized I had to provide the masses with an immediate answer.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Peasants have short attention spans,” he said. “Now the people are worked up over what happened. A week goes by, and they maintain their indignation. A week later, there’s less fervor, less ire. Two weeks beyond that, and the matter’s likely forgotten while they babble about the latest scandal from the capital.”

  “Cynical, Your Highness.”

  “The hells it is. I call that realism.” He stood and began pacing. “Now, for your ears only, here is what happened out there in the Border Lands. I’d become increasingly concerned, because Maisir is settling the lands just on the other side of the border, bringing in farmers and creating new units of those frontier guardians they call the Negaret. Guardians … or scouts for the invasion.

  “Maisir attacked a reinforced troop of the Twentieth Heavy Cavalry, which I’ve relocated from Urey. The reinforcements were wagoneers, mapmakers, and so forth, for that district is little known.” That explained the extra men. “They were on direct orders from me, so there was a magical link between us. I sensed something wrong, something to the north, used a Seeing Bowl to search the area, and my senses drew me to the terrible scene.

  “My vision showed nothing but bodies. Bodies and the carrion kites picking at them. They’d camped in a hollow near a spring. I don’t know if they were lax, or if their attackers silenced the sentries before they could sound alarm. A few appeared to have wakened, and fought back. They took a heavy toll of the Maisirians, but they were badly outnumbered. The troop was cut down to a man. The wounded were toyed with before being allowed to die. When ‘I’ came on the scene, the soldiers had been dead for two days, perhaps three.

  “I used more magic to scan for their murderers. A day’s ride further south, my all-seeing ‘eyes’ found tracks, and followed them across the border, to a Maisirian outpost. Since the bodies had been mutilated, it was obvious the Maisirians were reinforced by native levies from the Men of the Hills.

  “I summoned spirits,” the emperor went on, “and caused the bodies of my soldiers to burn with sacred flames. I sent a whirlwind sweeping across the area, so now there is nothing remaining, nothing but endless rolling hills of sand.

  “I’ve ordered great sacrifices made to Saionji, and promised even greater, so our soldiers will be treated well on the Wheel and, because of their sacrifice for Numantia, given preferential treatment in their next lives. The men’s families will be granted generous pensions.”

  Tenedos stopped, waiting for some response. There wasn’t much I could say, other than to thank him for what he had done. “What happens next?” I asked.

  “We wait for King Bairan’s real response,” Tenedos said. “We proceed with building up our army and move toward the Maisirian frontier. If they attack, I assume it’ll be along the traditional trading route, through Kait, down Sulem Pass, into Urey.

  “Which brings us to your role. I assume you’ve studied the materials I gave you?”

  “Thoroughly, sir.”

  “Do you think a war with Maisir is inevitable?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I didn’
t find much in the reports to make me think Maisir wants, or wanted anyway, to invade us. At least they didn’t before Bairan inherited the throne.”

  “There’s the change I’ve sensed,” Tenedos said. “I’m afraid he’s now seeing our lands as being ready for harvest. Perhaps he still thinks we’re as badly led as in the days of the Rule of Ten.” Tenedos smiled tightly. “If so, he’s misjudged things more than somewhat.”

  “What’s Kutulu’s analysis?” I asked.

  The emperor’s mood changed. His lips pressed into a thin line and I saw a vein throb at his temple. His eyes caught and held me with his searing gaze. “Kutulu,” he said harshly, “is dealing with other, internal matters. I’ve been using different, perhaps more qualified, people to assist me in understanding what’s happening with Maisir.”

  If I hadn’t known the emperor for as long as I had, and hadn’t therefore thought him a friend as well as my master, I would never have pursued the matter.

  “What happened with Kutulu, sir? If I may ask?”

  “Kutulu presumed,” he said. “I’ll tell you this once, and request you never repeat it. Kutulu is in disfavor, although I assume as time passes, I calm down, and he returns to his senses, he could resume his former importance. I praised the man recently, in private, and said he could have any reward I could offer. He said he wished to be named a tribune.

  “The fool!” The emperor’s pacing grew quicker, boot heels slamming against the parquet flooring. “Spies aren’t generals, aren’t tribunes. Not ever!”

  I remembered Kutulu looking up at the Water Palace, admiring it, and saying Perhaps, one day, if the emperor decides . . . and not finishing his sentence. At first I thought, The poor bastard. How could he imagine a warden could ever hold the army’s highest rank? Then my foolishness and arrogance vanished. Why not? Hadn’t a magician assumed he could become emperor? Hadn’t I, a subaltern of cavalry, reached the summit? Hadn’t Kutulu served the emperor as well, perhaps better than I? Who would have cared, anyway? Perhaps seven or eight old farts who would’ve muttered about tradition being once again despoiled by the usurper. But who listened to those creaking monsters these days, with the winds of empire blowing fresh?