Chapter Twenty-Four
The senior reaper—Harrow Bazakan, a human who hailed from Beyond—stepped from the cluster of his fellows, took the gold hammer proffered by their liege’s arurkré lieutenant, and struck the iron-coated thigh bone of their lord’s greatest kill. The reverberations sounded through the audience chamber and out into the mustering hall of the immense, ancient-crafted stronghold. “Behold, he comes wreathed in triumphant horror,” Bazakan shouted, “Liege Hwe’tsara: suppliant of the dread suzerain Ormalg, and his word and hand in this place!”
Fezhmorbal shifted so that his chain mail did not bunch as he rose with the rest of what Hwe’tsara liked to call his “court.” As if the collection of beasts and brutes in the rude chamber could be considered anything other than a squalid lair of rabid monsters. But, in service to the race, I rise and comply.
The liege did not enter for several seconds. It was his wont to remind his inner circle that they waited upon his will and whims. Far too many of the latter, for Fezhmorbal’s taste, but after all, Hwe’tsara was an x’qao. He wasn’t beast-spawned, true, but he still had his species’ innate tendency toward impatience and caprice.
If anything, Fezhmorbal thought as the three-meter x’qao made a slow progress to his granite throne, it is his limited prospects that make him so particularly suited for our purposes. Hwe’tsara was immense, but was neither true-blooded nor had he sprouted a second pair of arms, so it was by now a near surety that he was not an arurkré. Fezhmorbal managed not to smirk. Hence the x’qao’s pitiful efforts to impress: his slow stride, the even slower roll of his immense shoulders, and his pointed disregard of those gathered in his great hall.
Upon reaching the seat, Hwe’tsara stopped, faced outward, and raised both his hands. His fingers were spread wide.
Snarling and whining, all the lesser x’qa—the q’akh who had malformed hands and the ’qo who had none—sank to the floor, kneeling or prostrating themselves according to their station. They were joined by all those praakht who were not kajh—warriors—but had skills or crafts which had led them to foreswear bearing weapons except in defense of the fortress.
Hwe’tsara held them in their postures of supplication for a ten-count, then lowered his hands. But he did nod toward Bazakan to release him from further attending him until seated and settled upon the throne. The human will remember that, Fezhmorbal thought with grim pleasure as the liege gestured to his left without even looking. The newest kajh in the hall, a tribal praakh who had recently distinguished himself in battle, approached the throne. Lowering his eyes, he raised the tribute bowl until its rim was almost touching Hwe’tsara’s seventh—and so, smallest—finger.
The moment the x’qao touched it, the typical annoying buzz began. All the insects that were bound to any x’qai in the fortress answered the blood-call of their master—or the master of their master, in most cases—and began gathering just within the entrance. In a few moments, the air just inside and outside the broad opening was thick with their bodies and their noise.
Disinterested, or at least feigning it, Hwe’tsara bade them approach.
A thin stream of the largest insects emerged from the midair tornado of their smaller fellows, reaching toward him like a tentative tendril. One by one, they began landing on the rim of the bowl, dropping small chunks of flesh or insect carcasses into it. Each waited a moment and when Hwe’tsara did not react, they alighted briefly on his torso or legs, then flew madly off, a flake of his shedding skin hanging from their mandibles. A few paused before doing so, uncertain if their offering was acceptable: whether it did, in fact, weigh at least half what they did.
When the bowl was full, Hwe’tsara paused the rest of the swarm with a gesture. When they had quieted, he tipped its contents into his mouth.
Just behind Fezhmorbal’s shoulder, he heard his new lieutenant Gasdashrag retching. “You have not seen that before?”
Gasdashrag shook his head, swallowing forcibly: to vomit would be a dangerous sign of weakness.
“Good. You have passed.”
“Passed . . . what?” Gasdashrag said, voice thick.
“The test of seeing an x’qao liege consume tribute.”
“And if I had failed?”
“Hwe’tsara might have banned you from returning or being a part of any mission we undertake on his behalf. Or he might have had you devoured right here.”
Gasdashrag started. “Surely, you are not serious.”
Fezhmorbal turned and stared at him. “You have bile on your lip. Lick it off and attend.” He turned back to face the throne directly.
The smaller insects were clustering around the bowl now, but always careful to land and drop their tribute separately. When one did so and attempted to fly off in the same instant, Hwe’tsara raised a finger of his other hand. The insect, as large as Fezhmorbal’s wizened thumb, stopped abruptly, hovering. The hum of its wings was suddenly loud and irregular, as if it were struggling to fly out of a snare. Then, inch by inch, still buzzing wildly, it flew slowly back toward the liege, rising as it did.
Hwe’tsara’s jaws parted in a smile as the insect came closer. He extended his long, serrated tongue.
“What is happening?” Gasdashrag whispered.
“The liege is compelling it by a blood bond . . . and demonstrating what happens to those whose tribute is less than half their own weight.”
The insect, wings working steadily even as its legs struggled wildly, alit on the tip of the x’qao’s tongue.
For a moment, all the other insects hovered and the various onlooking humanoids and x’qa watched, silent. Then, with a sound like a muddy knife slipping into a leather sheath, Hwe’tsara’s tongue retracted abruptly. The insect emitted a shrill, desperate sound and was gone.
The liege sent a glance around the room, then held forth the bowl again. The ritual of tribute resumed.
Gasdashrag managed to keep his shuddering exhalation almost entirely silent. Fezhmorbal suppressed a sigh. Disappointing, that one of his own race was so easily distressed by the behavior of an x’qao. One should expect monstrous deeds from monsters, after all. But Gasdashrag, being highly intelligent, learned rapidly because of how intently he observed others’ failures. In time, he would be able to do so without also imagining himself in the place of the one whom he observed.
The smaller insects filled three bowls’ worth for Hwe’tsara. Empty, he held it toward a final humming cluster of insects near the opening. As they advanced, Gasdashrag murmured, “Why have they held back?”
“Because they are not like the others, not mere kiksla,” Fezhmorbal explained.
Gasdashrag frowned. “Kiksla? But I was told the word for insect is ‘kik.’”
I hope you are worth the trouble of training you, neophyte. “It is. Kiksla are those insects with which higher x’qao can forge a blood bond, and so, be influenced. This last group of insects are more special still; they are kiktzo. Through that blood bond, x’qao can not only command their actions, but see and hear what they witness.”
Gasdashrag was nodding thoughtfully, almost flinched when one of the kiktzo was consumed at a snap by an irritated Hwe’tsara. “It is strange, that so useful an insect—a kiktzo?—is destroyed for so small a failure.”
“If they do not have sufficient tribute, there is no mercy. It is the way of the x’qai. And not just with insects.” But so horribly wasteful, Fezhmorbal added silently. Such a consideration would only elicit scorn from an x’qao, no matter how evolved or intelligent. To them, losing a single set of eyes and ears was not only acceptable but desirable, if it improved the breeds that could become kiktzo. And that luxury of loss reminds their subjects—and they themselves—why they can afford it: their control of the world is absolute. Whereas every other race, including Fezhmorbal’s own deciqadi, perpetually fretted over every resource, every asset, as they struggled to keep what small margin of power they possessed.
The ritual was concluded, the bowl passed back to the waiting kajh, and Hwe’tsara surveyed the room. His eyes lingered on the small contingent of troops beside his throne: the harrows and scythes who had been picked as this day’s bodyguard. Like most lieges, he trusted them more than his closest vassals or most faithful lieutenants. Several different races were present in mix, and half their number had red eyes: those that had altered their bodies to become absolute instruments of war, often at the expense of longevity and comfort.
Fezhmorbal met the red eyes of the most senior deciqad among them: Udremgaj. Both allowed their leathery eyelids to droop for a moment: the equivalent of a secret nod.
“Gasdashrag,” Fezhmorbal whispered, barely moving his lips, “follow my lead. Do not speak if you are not required to. Watch and learn.” Without waiting for a reply, he straightened.
A moment later, Hwe’tsara turned toward him, eyes narrowing. “So, my deciqadi counselor, I take it you have heard the news?”
“Which news, Your Horror? There has been much, since the flood.”
“Yes, and it has all been like the rest of the dung left behind when the waters receded: foul and messy. Especially Nawgd’s further failures. He has indeed lost two of his most capable x’qao: an x’qiigh and a young true-blood. Apparently, the tale told by the third of their hunting party—an x’qao of weak origins—is true.”
“That they were attacked by spirits?” Fezhmorbal labored to keep the scorn and incredulity out of his tone.
“Who knows if such a thing is possible? Or why such a fate should befall a pair of hapless x’qao in the service of a nearly witless liege? What matters is that our ally is made weaker and less useful because of it. And it can no longer be discerned if this was the work of a subtle rival: the remains are too few and too old. And any tracks have been erased by the weather.”
“So is it the x’qai’s q’akh coursers who returned with this latest report?”
Hwe’tsara grunted. “They wisely chose not to appear before their master again. The more ‘Liege’ Nawgd’s schemes fail, the less safe it is to bring him bad news.”
As if that isn’t a universal trait among x’qa. “Inconvenient,” Fezhmorbal nodded. “But if not them, Your Horror, then what witness confirmed the story of the surviving x’qao? The x’qiigh’s kiktzo, perhaps?”
“Yes, though most did not return. Only a few still felt enough of Nawgd’s will calling to their blood. Who, being displeased with their reports, ate them like the fool he is.”
Fool, indeed. “And what did their memories hold?”
“Does it matter?
And here sits yet another fool! “It might, Your Horror.”
Hwe’tsara’s shoulders shone as he shrugged. “Different forms of madness, further distorted by their infinitesimal minds. As they perceived it, the two x’qai fell dead as if by touched by the anger of a distant suzerain. Or that they fought against unseen spirits of the air. Or were struck by fits and lightning.” Hwe’tsara glanced sideways at his deciqadi advisor. “What do you make of that?”
“There is one common sinew throughout: that what the kiktzo saw, they could not understand.”
“As I said, they are insects.”
“Yes, but even insects understand physical combat, just as they can report the species they detect, their locations, and their movements. In this case, their confusion might not simply be a consequence of their miniscule minds. They may also have witnessed events beyond the limit of their experience. For it is as you say, Wise Hwe’tsara: they cannot recognize that which they do not already know.”
The x’qao liege shifted restlessly on his stone throne. “This conversation would almost be amusing, if it were not worrisome.”
“How so, Your Horror?”
“Here I inform you that an ally, Nawgd, has made himself less useful to me through his stupidity, and you are fretting over the perceptions of bugs?”
“I only fret over them insofar as they bear upon the disturbing mystery of how two strong x’qao were killed.”
“The specifics hardly matter: they were roaming when and where they should not have been allowed to. They met foes and perished, thereby weakening the idiot Nawgd and reducing his value to me. That is tangible; that is what you should be worried about.”
“I am,” Fezhmorbal answered. “But he remains a useful tool, who may be used to apply pressure when and where it would be inconvenient for you.”
Still focused on his deciqadi counselor, Hwe’tsara waved away the praakht and other non-x’qa, save the harrows and scythes. The dismissed bowed and exited. The q’akh appeared bored; the ’qo simply eyed the two deciqadi hungrily.
Hwe’tsara waited until the sounds of his withdrawing “court” had faded. “You have proven relatively useful, Counselor. How long have you been advising me, now?”
Fezhmorbal wondered if that was just a test of his tact, or the x’qao had truly forgotten. With them, you never know. “Two seasons, Your Horror.”
The impossibly broad x’qao adopted a posture that almost left him lounging across the arms of his throne. “Thus far, your species’ minds and facility with devices has not disappointed me. Deciqadi may indeed prove to be an adequate addition to my forces.”
More than adequate. But Fezhmorbal’s only response was, “Which we shall continue to prove as often as you wish.”
He pointedly did not glance at Harrow Udremgaj. It would be disastrous if any x’qao liege learned just how closely all deciqadi were bound into their race’s slow schemes to not only gain more, but controlling, power. The first targets of their plans, the humans, had vulnerabilities that could eventually be leveraged against them, quickly and decisively. The x’qai would require a much longer and incremental strategy. But just as water wears down rock, so too shall we—
Hwe’tsara’s voice was annoyed, harsh. “Your attention is still required, Fezhmorbal.” He sat more formally in his chair. “That habit is your one annoying similarity to humans.”
“Do you refer to my distraction, Your Horror?”
“No: I refer to how your thoughts become so deep that, although your eyes are still open, you are no longer looking out of them.”
“I shall endeavor to refrain from doing so in your presence.”
Hwe’tsara looked away, his throat releasing a palate-grinding grrrkhhh’k’k!: the x’qao equivalent of harumph. “It would please me more if you would cease doing it altogether. But if that is your breed’s only flaw, I suppose I can live with it.”
That will prove an ironic turn of phrase if you are not careful, monster. “No being may change its given nature,” Fezhmorbal answered truthfully, “except arurkré. Such as you shall prove to be, Your Horror.”
Hwe’tsara sat straighter, became stern. “It is wise that you remember, and honor, that difference between my kind and yours, deciqad.”
Fezhmorbal respectfully inclined his head, thereby hiding his eyes lest they reveal his thoughts: How easy you are to manipulate, merely by flattering your forlorn hope of transcendence. “You mentioned other troubling news, Your Horror. What concerns you?”
“The coming exchange with the irksome independents on the north bank.”
“You are referring to the praakht gang leader who has been in contact with your vassals?”
“The same. They will not relent on their price. The nerve of them! They ask much when the value of what they offer is not yet proven. Their only inducement was that huge rag they sent and which you pored over for hours!”
“The fabric is most unusual, Dread Liege. Extremely light, yet extremely strong. And surely the agents who received it inspected the rest of what they are offering in trade?”
Hwe’tsara’s gaze was steady but his tone was evasive. “Of course!”
“And were those goods as unique as claimed?” It was frustrating but necessary to address the pending exchange obliquely; any fault in evaluating the strange captive and his gear lay with Hwe’tsara’s hasty instructions to his own agents.
“Is it not you who will tell me if the condition of the material was as claimed . . . or not?”
“I can certainly do so, Your Horror. But is it not . . . problematic to be uncertain of its final value until after the exchange has taken place? Had I, or one of my lieutenants been allowed to accompany your agents—”
“That could not, and cannot, be done. It is essential that both you and I keep our connection to this trade unrevealed. At least for now. But if this upstart has misrepresented what he offers”—Hwe’tsara’s smile was eager and mirthless—“then I shall make an example of him by feeding him to my q’akh and taking his kajh, urldi, and goods for my own. As recompense for my troubles.”
“Of course,” Fezhmorbal observed, “if he does deliver what he has promised, he may prove to be of further use, particularly if he parlays what he has gained in trade to strengthen himself. His gang might grow to become a great-gang, which could be recruited to bring increased pressure against those which defend the flanks of the Legate’s fortress.”
The x’qao liege smiled. “Yes. The gang leader is miserable because he is clever and bold, but those same traits would make him a formidable minion.”
Fezhmorbal shrugged. “This is true, presuming it is the gang leader who is so formidable.”
Hwe’tsara’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you mean?”
“Earlier reports of him are not consistent with the caution and foresight that the other side has evinced during these negotiations. However, those same reports do mention that his truthteller is known for just such intelligence and prudence.”
Hwe’tsara waved away the distinction. “It is no matter. If I have leverage over the gang leader, then I have leverage over his truthteller. Who, if more worthy, will become my asset.” The x’qao sighed heavily. “There are always more able bodies, but never enough careful minds.”
Fezhmorbal managed not to blink or guffaw. Can even he be oblivious to the self-parody of that “lament”?
The liege shared more wisdom in the same vein. “If good commanders and planners did not increase the power of a force manyfold, no liege would keep stables of humans. They are frail and troublesome, but it is easy to breed them for cleverness.” There was a sly look on the would-be arurkré’s face. “Indeed, they are so proficient and well proven in that regard, that I am always of half a mind to reconsider my agreement with you.”
Trying to see if I will flinch and fawn. Yet, if I am too proud . . . Fezhmorbal bowed. “It has always been understood that you may decide against using my kind to replace your humans.” In fact, it was likely. Humans were easily controlled thralls, whereas deciqadi—who could always return to their hidden hotside communities—were allies. Fezhmorbal straightened. “In time, your suzerains may even learn to breed humans who are not only more amenable to the yoke, but almost as durable as my people.”
Hwe’tsara’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Be careful who you bait with your cleverness, deciqad. You know that such breeding is not so simple. If it were, we would have done so long ago.”
Dung and spittle, I overstepped. Careful, now. “I meant only to be agreeable, Your Horror,” he lied. “I have no knowledge of the intricacies of how you and other x’qai breed your human slaves.” Which was partially true: the details were one of the lieges’ few well-guarded secrets, betrayal of which would invite the swift and lethal wrath of the suzerains.
Hwe’tsara’s eyes were still narrowed, but not so fiercely. “Then attend; it is necessary that you understand how x’qao manage their human stables.” Fezhmorbal glanced at the human reapers; they appeared to be either bored or moderately amused. “They are not concerned with such things,” Hwe’tsara snapped. “No harrow or scythe comes from a stable. They cannot have any attachments which could be used to compromise their loyalty.”
Fezhmorbal found it easy to believe that Hwe’tsara’s reapers had never known a family. The eyes staring out of their faces had no trace of emotion, only a detached curiosity that was as cruel as it was clinical. And suddenly, he understood: “So, all harrows are from Beyond?”
“And scythes as well,” Hwe’tsara snarled impatiently. “Do not distract me again. Understand: we cannot allow the humans to track their ancestry. This is why no breeding is allowed between those in the same stable. This not only avoids physical and mental defects, but eliminates the complication of relatives fighting alongside each other.
“This is also why the females are cloistered: that they may not know the identity of those who sire their young. For the same reason, infants are immediately taken from their mothers and put in the care of praakht wet nurses.” Hwe’tsara stopped, waited for Fezhmorbal to comment, grew impatient and pressed: “Well? You question everything else but not this?”
Fezhmorbal was still working to imagine an existence without family bonds or even knowledge of one’s ancestors. “How . . . why do they stand for such . . . such conditions?”
“Who? The humans? They stand for it because they have no choice. Not if they wish to live. If a sire reveals his home stable to his mate, he is killed. If a female attempts to discover the whereabouts of her infant, she loses a finger and her praakht accomplices lose their lives.” Misinterpreting Fezhmorbal’s headshake as a critique rather than baffled revulsion, Hwe’tsara explicated. “Of course, there are many who console themselves that they tolerate the arrangement because they must survive long enough to change it, to live to ‘fight another day.’”
“You recite that as if it is a common utterance among them.”
The liege shrugged. “It is. But never openly.”
“And you tolerate it?”
The x’qao shrugged. “Why not? Bitterness and resentment of those above one’s station are common at every level of the pyramid of power. A first liege feels savage envy toward his suzerain, just as senior war leaders do toward the vavasor they are pledged to serve.”
Fezhmorbal nodded, even as he thought: But there is a difference. The humans do not hate you because you thwart their ambition. They hate you because of the yoke you keep upon them. And you cannot perceive that because you have no loves, no families, no drives beyond your dreams of supremacy. Because, quite literally, you are monsters. And if you are not very, very careful—
Fezhmorbal snapped himself straight, breaking up through thoughts that were not only unprofitable but dangerous in the lair of an x’qao liege. “Was there other news that discomfited you, Your Horror?”
“It appears that the humans and the apparent x’qagrat’r who arrived several days ago are lodging with the Legate. If they are additions to his force, that more than offsets any advantage I hoped to gain through Nawgd’s support.”
“I heard report that they reemerged today and did business at the vansary.”
Hwe’tsara nodded. “They did.”
“And so your scythes were watching.”
Hwe’tsara shifted slightly. “Mostly.”
Which means you forgot to keep your reapers alert to the new humans and their doings. But today, when you asked what they observed at the vansary, only Udremgaj provided you with information . . . because I tasked him to. “What did they see?”
“Why? What battle-useful knowledge do you think to gain from a shopping list?”
“Perhaps none, but perhaps a great deal. Who may tell me what they purchased?”
Hwe’tsara gestured irritably toward the scythes. However, Udremgaj did not step forward, but bade a more junior human scythe to do so. “Tell us what they were given, Litatraj.”
The scythe held a slate in front of him, hand trembling as he shouted in his best herald’s voice. “Iron and bronze knives and swords. Half a dozen crossbows, one much larger than the rest. A bow of bone and horn. Arrows and quarrels pointed with many metals. Many small shields and much armor of cured hide. Waterskins, packs, sandals, sleeping furs, all of good quality.” He stepped back . . . but then, eyes widening at a sudden recollection, he stepped hastily forward to add, “And poison. And ink and styluses.” His brow shiny with nervous sweat, he stepped back.
Hwe’tsara watched Fezhmorbal digest this information as he tapped his clawed foot impatiently. “And so,” the x’qao asked in angry exasperation, “what do you discern from this? Do they mean to bring about the downfall of the suzerains with a handful of crossbows?”
“No. But also, they do not mean to stay in Forkus.”
Hwe’tsara sat forward sharply. “Explain.”
“Your Horror, if they meant to join the Legate, they would not be purchasing weapons that their employer could supply at need. Besides, they would rely upon their own advanced equipment, which is the envy of many reapers, I am told.
“Instead, the items they acquired are necessary for long travels or to equip kajh impressed to their service. But I noticed something else of interest, Your Horror. When describing their transactions, Harrow Udremgaj said the items were given, not purchased. Is that distinction intended?”
“It is. The scythes saw no goods exchanged for the ones they received. Nor coin, either.”
Fezhmorbal rubbed his lean, leathery chin. “Being newcomers, these humans could not have a balance with merchants. So, they must have been drawing against an account already set aside for them.”
“By whom? The money-grubbing h’achga who runs the vansary? Or maybe his liege Vranadoc?”
Fezhmorbal shrugged. “Or the Legate. Whichever it is, we may safely assume this much: the funds they used were for a service they performed elsewhere, or one which they have yet to perform here. Which is very unlikely to be of moment to you or your plans.” Indeed, it is more likely to be significant to my plans. Given the speed with which these arrangements were made, they may already know someone in Forkus. Which may not be of immediate concern, but—
“Fezhmorbal!” Hwe’tsara roared. “You are indulging in that nasty human habit again! Return your attention to the matter at hand and tell me: are you convinced that these humans and the x’qagrat’r shall not remain long enough to influence our plans?”
“Pardon my distraction, Your Horror. And, no: I predict they will be gone within ten days, twenty at the outside.”
“Well, that is welcome news.” Hwe’tsara frowned mightily. “Still: harrows and scythes who came in without the banner of a lord? What do you think them? Rogues? Rebels? Traitors?”
Fezhmorbal shrugged. “They were dusty from long travel in the wastes, without a single rad or servitor to carry their supplies. Of this much, we may be sure: they are not in the service of a suzerain.”
Hwe’tsara nodded. “Keep an ear turned toward word of their doings and their speech.”
“Indeed, Liege, I shall.” For my own purposes as much as yours.
“But mind you, Fezhmorbal, do not be distracted from your primary purpose.”
The deciqad bent his head slightly. “All shall be in readiness by the time the caravan from Fragkork approaches, come mid-spring. And assuming all goes well, we shall be well prepared to arrange a proper greeting for the more important one that shall approach in midsummer.”
Hwe’tsara nodded in satisfaction. “You know your responsibilities. Discharge them well, and I shall think more favorably upon the prospect of replacing my humans with your people.” When Fezhmorbal offered no bow of departure, he frowned. “You have an expectant look, Counselor.”
“About the splitting star, Your Horror. You intimated that your interest was sufficiently piqued to ask the Suzerain’s opinion on—”
“No. It was your interest that led me to assure you I would disturb Great Ormalg himself with such utter nonsense.” The x’qao sighed. “I shall do so when next my mind touches his. Remember: I have given you my word.”
Which is as valueless as the dust in my sandals, Fezhmorbal thought as he nodded at Gasdashrag to copy his deep bow of farewell.