Chapter Five
Ashai crouched behind a column of rock, staring into the fire-lit cavern beyond. Sweat rolled down his face, soaking his collar and trickling down his back. He fought the urge to shiver as it tingled along his spine.
From somewhere deep within the cave came a loud crack, followed by a wail of pure agony. Next came the clash of hammer on anvil, followed by the smell of smoke, and the sharp tang of iron on his tongue. The sounds of an army being built.
He ducked as a column of soldiers passed by, dark men dressed in dark leather, with studs and spikes and steel rings glittering in every joint. Armed with wickedly curved swords, three-tipped spears, eight-pointed morning stars, and double-edged battle-axes, and weapons he’d never seen, the men marched past his position, grim and foreboding.
Their faces came from a nightmare, dark skin swirled with tattoos and punctured with the same rings and studs and spikes that adorned their uniforms. It was almost as if their armor was merely a second skin, a thick black shell permanently attached, designed to frighten as much as protect. Cold, cruel eyes dark as midnight scanned the cave as the soldiers marched past, column after column, a never-ending line marching up from below.
Some soldiers—maybe one in twenty or thirty—stood head and shoulders above the rest, rippling in muscle and sinew, carved from the mountain itself. Black as night, with eyes the color of fire and fangs that dripped blood, these ones drove the others, barking commands and cracking whips, when needed.
And to make matters worse, they wielded power. Not pure, enriching power, like his, but a corrupt, twisted kind of sorcery that filled his nostrils with the stench of decay, and chilled his skin like the air from a long-sealed tomb.
Ashai had to know where they were going. Something inside him drove him, implored him to find their destination.
He looked down and found himself dressed in the same studded armor, a notched and serrated sword on his hip, a small iron shield in his hand. Without a thought, he ran from behind the pillar and fell into formation, marching in step with the soldiers.
If they found him out of place, no one said a word. They kept marching, onward and upward, driving toward the surface. They didn’t seem to tire. Even when Ashai’s legs were throbbing, his feet screaming in pain, his back clenching, the soldiers marched on without even a whisper of dissent.
After what seemed an eternity, they rounded a corner and a light appeared ahead. Upon seeing it, the soldiers began to chant, banging sword or axe on shield or rock in a rhythm that grew in speed and frenzy.
They jogged, then cantered. And as the first of their column reached the opening, they broke into a run, releasing a war cry so bloodcurdling, so terrorizing, that Ashai, for all his training and all his conditioning, wanted to hide.
He burst into the sunlight, and dodged to the side, out of line. He crouched again behind a boulder this time and watched as the flood of dark soldiers poured from the mouth of the cave. They became a raging torrent, a never-ending deluge of violence and death, and wherever they went the green of the earth turned brown or black, sunlight turned to shadow, and death settled on land like a shroud.
From Pushtan in the South to Lyres in the north, everything and everyone died.
Ashai sat bolt upright in bed, his sheets drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The tatters of the dream slipped away into the night, but the image of the soldiers and their masters lingered, along with the shadow of death fallen across the world.
The dream was a sign, but of what? He tried puzzling through, but could not.
He reached for a cup of water he left on the nightstand, his hand shaking so much that he spilled the water on himself.
Makari was clouding his mind. He needed to pray, but he could not do so, at least not aloud, for the guard Bauti left outside the door would hear. He’d been in the palace five days now, and prayed only once. His power was fading, and his body was paying the price.
He gave fleeting thought to sneaking out and paying Bauti’s throat a visit with his dagger, but he couldn’t afford the indulgence. The captain’s death would arouse suspicion and endanger his plans. After God had made them go so perfectly, Ashai dared not ruin them. He would kill Bauti for his sin against the boy, but not before the captain watched his king and princess die.
He rose while the sun still slumbered, and he longed to say his morning prayers in the tradition of his faith: prone, facing the rising sun. But even if the guard would not hear, the one called Tan had spies roaming secret corridors, listening to guests and inhabitants through walls and paintings and wardrobes. It would not do for one to see him praising the One True God instead of worshipping the five false ones that ruled here in Pushtan.
Not that these people were devout worshippers. Their relations with their gods were distant. Aloof. They spent more time worshipping commerce than any of the Five Gods.
So instead, trembling with longing, he went through the physical motions of praying to The Five while repeating Nishi’iti prayers in his mind. As he prayed, he felt his hold on the thread of magic strengthen, the power coursing through him like fire. It felt not like something foreign entering him, but some part of him awakening, filling a void in his soul.
The Power of Nishi cured all.
He reached into the sleeve of the modest purple robe he planned to wear that day. Two thirds of the way down, where he could reach it only with the garment off, he found a small pocket. Inside that pocket, he found a tiny, velvet purse. He withdrew the purse and walked to a small table in the corner of the chambers.
Taking a deep breath, he looked around. There was some danger doing this here, knowing the palace had ears and eyes. But he had to be sure.
Untying the drawstring, he turned the purse upside down and three cut diamonds spilled out onto the polished wooden tabletop. The size of the tip of his pinky finger, each gem was a different shape. A round one represented Abadas, an oval Makari. And a square represented Ashai himself. All three had been meticulously carved so facets twinkled and reflected light in almost perfect proportions. All three glowed the color of the summer sky.
One by one, Ashai brushed the stones with the tip of his forefinger. He held his breath and counted to ten, but nothing happened.
Letting out a deep sigh, he returned the stones to their pouch and stuffed it in the hidden pocket. Had any one of them turned red, the person it represented would have died that day, no questions asked. Ashai found himself relieved they had remained blue, for he had not yet gained his targets’ trust. His kill would be less effective.
As the sun came up, he looked around the room, ticking off in his mind a list of sins it held. Opulence. Vanity. Waste. Arrogance. Idolatry. All resided in the high-ceilinged room, starting with its gigantic, ornate bed, carved from fine, dark wood. Silk sheets and a thick comforter had kept him warm, but a simple wool blanket would have done as well and at no offense to Nishi. The gilding on the walls, and the fancy, woven rugs looked expensive enough to feed the city’s poor, and the white marble walls gleamed with the dull ambivalence of wealth.
God abhorred wealth.
Ashai sighed and put on the soft, cotton robe they’d given him, frowning at the fancy embroidery and fur-lined collar. So much excess surrounded him. He wondered if it tainted his soul to be around it.
Still, he did God’s bidding here. Nishi’itis had suffered too long at the hands of Pushtanis, both in the northlands and here, where they worked as slaves or prostitutes. The deaths of Abadas and Makari would bring Pushtan to its knees, forcing the army to pull out of the northern foothills, leaving fertile land to Nishi’itis. Land his nation needed to survive.
His mission came from God and the Chargh Lai. They would forgive his sins in accomplishing it.
He had just tied his brown silk sash around his waist when a timid knock came at the door. He opened it to find Makari there, dressed in a gown the color of eggplant. Sadly, it was shaped like one too. Pink lace adorned the bodice and puffy sleeves tumbled like waterfalls down her arms, leaving her shoulders bare.
“Highness,” he said, bowing. “Your dress is quite …”
Her eyes flashed. “It was my mother’s!”
“… lovely. It is no match for your own beauty, of course.”
She frowned. “My father makes me wear her things. It’s … frustrating.”
Ashai inclined his head. “It may help him remember her, Highness. He may see her in you when you wear these.”
She gave him a smile then, an expression that made him feel like she’d shared it with him alone, and that no one else would ever see it. For a moment, he felt light-headed.
He cleared his throat and snatched his thoughts back. How did she always distract him so?
“I thought we might break fast together,” she suggested. “Without Captain Bauti.”
“I would be most honored, Your Highness,” he said, following her into the corridor. “I suspect the captain doesn’t like me much.”
She shrugged, and he glanced at her bare shoulders. Guilt gnawed at him. “Bauti trusts no one, where my father and I are concerned.”
“Especially you.”
She blushed, and looked out an arched window as she passed.
“It will be hot today,” she said.
“Not as hot as Brynn, Highness,” he said. “There it gets so hot your feet blister just walking in sandals.”
“Surely not!” She laughed, her eyes sparkling. She surprised him by taking his arm again. “I have heard Brynn is cooled by winds off the sea, and never gets hot.”
“Her Highness is misinformed.” He knew. He’d lived there for years, perfecting his disguise. “When the winds are off the water, the climate is moderate. But in late summer, the wind is often from the east, hot and dry and carrying the yellow sand of the wastelands. Some days, your lungs fill with the dust, and you eat it in your food.
“They say that on those days, you can cook a pig by leaving it outside for an hour.”
Makari’s heels clicked on the marble floor as they rounded a corner and came to a simple, wooden double door. She opened it and led Ashai into a low-ceilinged dining room, lit by oil lamps and braziers. Plush rugs covered the floor, and a small, sturdy table sat in the middle, three chairs on each side.
Makari closed the door and motioned for Ashai to sit.
“This is the servants’ dining room,” she explained. “It’s bland, I don’t think Captain Bauti will look for me here.”
She sat across from him, and as if on cue, servants entered from a small door at the back of the room.
She and Ashai dined on fresh melons and grapes, with bread and cheese and nuts she said grew in the palace arbor. They drank a sweet, pink wine, followed by a strong, black tea from Thahr.
Makari peppered him with questions about his childhood, life in Brynn, and his business. And she asked him how he’d worked his way into the trust of the merchant Larish.
“Ah, that was quite the accident,” he told her. “I was an orphan. Living on the streets. And I … well, I stole a bolt of silk from his shop, but tripped on the way out, ruining the cloth. Old Larish made me work a half-year to pay off the debt and avoid the constable. I watched and realized business was poor, so I proposed a solution.”
“How did an orphaned boy solve a business problem?”
“I knew the orphanage in Brynn needed cloth to make clothes for their children, so I had him donate the cloth to the orphanage. When the orphanage had the clothes made, the only payment he asked was that they sew his name on the inside of each garment. Nice clothes got more children adopted, and every adopting family saw Larish’s name. Since only people with money adopt, business improved. And since that same orphanage had taught me to read and do numbers, I kept Larish’s books for him, so he had more time to handle patrons. Before long, business was on the mend and he kept me as his helper. When a robber killed him and his wife, I inherited their business, which I sold to move here.”
He winced at the memory of finding Larish dead. He’d been a good man, as non-believers went. Honest and hard-working. He’d deserved a long life, but he liked to think the death, while sad, had helped him reach this point. In his own way, Larish had served Nishi.
Makari studied him a moment, her lips pursed, her index finger tapping on her cheek.
“I think I know your reward!” She slapped the table and bounced up. “Let’s go see my father.”
And she left in a swish of purple as Ashai struggled to keep up.
Makari marched through the palace corridors, dragging Ashai along by his wrist, the merchant panting and huffing as she jerked him around corner after corner. Finally, she stopped in front of a set of oak wood doors, ornately carved with her family’s coat of arms. Two Royal guard members snapped to attention and started to lower their halberds to block the door before recognizing her. The senior man, a grizzled sergeant with a scar under his right eye, cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, you may enter but your guest may not.”
Makari planted her fists on her hips and locked her eyes on the guard’s. He actually pressed his back against the wall.
“Do you deem to tell me who I can and cannot take into my father’s study, Sergeant?”
“I’m sorry, Princess, but Captain Bauti said—”
Still holding Ashai by the wrist, Makari pushed past the guards and seized the handle on the right door.
“Captain Bauti answers to me! Now stand aside.”
She tore the door open while the Sergeant stammered, then she burst into the room, hauling a confused Ashai behind her.
Her father’s study had always been one of her favorite rooms in the palace. Large enough to accommodate ten or twelve people, but small enough to remain intimate, the study had been built mostly from dark, warm wood. A mahogany desk, oak tables and chairs. Books lined up on shelves of maple, with posts and rafters of knotty pine. If it weren’t for the walls of books, the room would’ve been more of a hunting lodge than a study. It even had a gaping stone fireplace with a stag’s head hung above it.
“Makari, what is the meaning of this!”
Her father jumped to his feet, spilling red wine on his pearl-colored robes. A servant moved quickly to dab the stain. Seated in a circle around her father were his chief advisers. The commanding general of Pushtan’s armies, the broad shouldered General Celani. The stoic Minister of Trade, Lord Talbot. The Foreign Minister, the Interior Minister, Samaran Tan, and several others she did not recognize. Even Captain Bauti stood behind her father, his sword uncharacteristically leaned against the wall, chain mail discarded for a blue and black doublet.
“Preposterous!” The blustery Foreign Minister said, slapping a mug of ale on a side table. “Women are not allowed in Royal Council unless they sit the throne. And commoners not at all!”
Ashai bowed and tried to back out of the room, but Makari held his wrist tight.
“Minister Renard, I would suggest you remember I am more than just a woman. I’m also your Princess and the heir to the Pushtani throne. Someday your future on this council—and perhaps in this city—may depend on our conversation today.”
Renard paled and inclined his head, picking his mug back up and taking a long pull. She didn’t miss his slight glare, or the grin that crept onto Captain Bauti’s face.
“Makari,” her father said, “I have not yet invited you to this council for my own reasons. What is it you need of me?”
Makari looked around the room, finding every pair of eyes focused on her. She took a deep breath.
“Father, I nominate Ashai Larish for the position of Minister of Finance.”
The council erupted in chaos.
“She’s not a member! She cannot nominate!” blurted Lord Talbot.
“He’s a common merchant!” Wheezed the aging Interior Minister, Lord Neffin. “There is no precedent.”
Her father dropped into his padded chair, the leather squeaking through the room. Behind him, Bauti crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a disappointed glare.
“I’ve interviewed him extensively,” she shouted over the din. She’d spoken publicly enough that her tone silenced the arguments for a moment. “He’s an experienced businessman who is good with numbers. He turned around his mentor’s business. He managed the crown’s charitable affairs the day he saved me. And the throne owes him a reward for saving my life. I propose their reward be a Lordship and appointment to this council.”
This time, silence wrapped the room like a burial cloak. The Council members looked at the floor, their hands, their wine or ale. Anything but Makari. Finally, Lord Neffin rose and shuffled his way to her side. He placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder, and leaned in so close she could count the gray hairs sticking out of his nose.
“My dear Princess, your intentions are noble, but these are troubled times. An assassin is in the palace. We must only appoint those we know to be loyal to this council.”
Makari had always liked Neffin. The old man had been on the Council longer than she’d been alive. He always had a kind word, and rarely partook in the court’s mean-spirited gossip.
Letting go of Ashai, she patted Neffin’s hand and led him back to his chair.
“My Lord Neffin, Master Ashai placed his life in harm’s way to save me. What greater loyalty is there than that? Besides, if he were Denari Lai, my father and I would be dead.”
As if to contradict her, Ashai spoke.
“My Lords of the Council are all correct, of course.” Makari’s head whipped around and she fired icicle darts at him. “I am but a common merchant, not experienced in courtly matters, and a stranger to the palace. Captain Bauti is right to not trust me, and while I am deeply grateful for Her Highness’s belief in me, I must thankfully and respectfully decline her nomination for this position.”
He sketched a deep bow, then turned and strode from the study. Makari could only stand, steam coming out her ears, and watch him go.
Seeing her distress, her father came to her side and took her by the hand. He led her to the chair beside his own and helped her sit.
“Stay and listen, Makari. Perhaps it’s time you saw how the Council does business.” He turned to the other council members. “Since the subject has already been broached, let us discuss replacement for the late Lord Merwin, Minister of Finance. I will accept your nominations, hear cases, and make my decision by the end of this council.”
What followed for the next hour made Makari want to drive needles into her ears. Every Council member had their own nominee, each one woefully unqualified but well-suited to serve the purposes of the nominating council member. For instance, Minister Renard nominated a weasel-faced man with no financial experience, knowing he would send inordinate amounts of money to the Foreign Ministry. General Celani nominated another general who would no doubt send money to the Army. And so it went for each minister, ending with an all-out shouting match over whose nominee was most corrupt.
Makari glanced at her father to find him with his head in his hands, massaging his temples. Finally, he slapped both hands on the table, rattling glasses and sloshing wine everywhere.
“Enough selfishness! Not one of you nominated someone who will serve the Pushtani kingdom. In fact, the only person who did is not even a member of this council. Therefore, I select Ashai Larish as the Minister of Finance. If my daughter trusts him, so do I. Makari, inform him this hour. This council is adjourned.”
Chaos exploded through the room again, but her father ignored it, shoving back from the table, and striding from the room. Makari, still in shock, rose and followed him out, Captain Bauti close on her heels like her own personal thundercloud.
The Watcher moved like a shadow down the hidden passageway behind the walls of the royal palace, careful to make no more noise than a mouse or a cockroach, his presence a mere zephyr in a drafty stone building. Although walls of wood and granite separated him from the denizens of the palace, one misstep would echo down the corridors and be heard where no one knew about the passageways. It would render the passages useless to him if they were discovered.
So he planted his feet with the utmost care, soft slippers barely more than a whisper on the stone floor as he followed the Princess on the other side of the wall. He didn’t really need to follow her, for he knew where she was going. Her father had charged her with telling Ashai of his new position. Minister of Finance was a true achievement for the Denari Lai, perhaps a record for working his way into an inner circle in just under a week.
The Watcher grinned as he glided around a corner. Ashai had proven most adept at manipulating the Pushtanis, especially using Princess Makari to control her father. And turning down the ministerial position had been a stroke of genius, making him look reluctant, and lifting suspicion from him.
Perhaps there was hope for Ashai after all.
Makari climbed a set of marble stairs, heels clacking with every step, and The Watcher paralleled her behind the wall, his slippery feet kissing the steps in silence. At the top, she turned to the first door on the right and knocked. The Watcher worked his way to the back of the room, where a pinhole in the wall allowed him to peer inside. Ashai lounged on his overstuffed bed, eyes closed, probably in silent prayer.
A good sign.
At Makari’s knock, the assassin rose and walked to the door. He turned and hesitated, a deliberate step designed to make him appear surprised, unprepared. But The Watcher could tell from the smug smile on Ashai’s face that he’d known all along this would happen.
Then he pulled the door open, and the Princess stepped inside. Ashai bowed, a deep flowing gesture he reserved only for Makari, and ushered her inside. He left the door open, a sign of respect and courtesy for her virtue. It would not be necessary in Nishi’iti culture, but here in Pushtan, men did not always act with honor. The erosion of faith always resulted in the growth of poor behavior.
Makari spoke first.
“My father has appointed you Minister of Finance,” she said. Her face beamed, her eyes glittering with pride. She had no idea she’d been manipulated into this.
Ashai made a grandiose gesture of throwing his hands up, then running his fingers through his dark hair. He turned his back and stalked to the bed, showing some disrespect by not facing his Princess. Again a calculated move, this time designed to show distress had robbed him of his faculties.
Brilliant.
“Your Highness, while I appreciate your faith in me,” Ashai said, adding a slight edge to his voice that The Watcher thought somewhat dangerous, “I truly do not desire a position in court. I’m quite happy running a business. A courtly life is not for me.”
Makari planted her hands on her hips and fixed Ashai with her iciest glare.
“Are you angry at me? I just got you appointed to a powerful position. You’ll have lands, servants, and gold.”
Ashai wheeled on her. “Princess, I never asked for those things.”
“And you’ll be able to see me every day.”
Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. The Watcher sucked in a breath, amazed at the emotional impact Ashai had on her. But it seemed he had miscalculated this time, gone too far.
Then something in Ashai changed, something subtle and almost unnoticeable. In fact, if The Watcher had not been as well-trained as he was, he might’ve missed it. Ashai’s features didn’t move, but they softened ever so slightly. It wasn’t physical, but emotional or spiritual. As if the fire in his eyes had gone from a raging flame to a comforting blaze.
Ashai took a step toward the Princess, his hand stopping just short of her forearm.
“I-I’m sorry, Princess. You’re right, of course. I’m being small-minded, rude, and ungrateful. I owe you my thanks for your faith in me and for the opportunity to be more than I was before.”
He took her hand, swept into an elaborate bow, and kissed her ring.
“I hope that you’ll forgive me, for I’m still but a simple merchant. Perhaps, with your help, I can learn to be a proper lord.”
No, Ashai had not gone too far. His emotional manipulation of the Princess had simply reached a new level of perfection. She was clay in his hands now, ready to stand and trust him as he carried out God’s will. The question remained, was Ashai the person to carry it out? The softening of his heart had been real, a response to Makari’s tears that could mean only one thing.
Feelings. A Denari Lai’s worst enemy.
The Watcher had seen enough. He stepped away from the hole, and pattered away down the corridor toward his chambers. He had a message to send.