Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 4 - Obsidian Oracle (5 page)

As his eyes adjusted to the stifling murkiness, Tithian saw that was not the case. A
gallery of marble benches ran down both sides of the huge chamber, partially concealed by
two lines of marble pillars that supported the ceiling. Several hundred men and women
waited patiently in the tiers, all dressed in white togas hemmed with silver and gold.
They were of many races: human, mul, dwarf, half-elf, and even tarek. They all remained
absolutely silent, sitting so motionless that not even the rustle of their silken robes
disturbed the eerie quiet.

At the far end of the chamber stood an empty throne, constructed of translucent alabaster
and stationed upon a pedestal of pink jade. Inlays of blue-tinted moonstone decorated the
back of the magnificent seat, while the arms had been shaped from solid blocks of
chalcedony and the legs from limpid crystals of citrine. All of the light passing through
the room's narrow windows seemed to flow directly into the chair, which cast the radiance
back into the chamber as a muted white glow.

Tithian walked forward, stopping near a graying patrician of about his own age. She had
the pointed ears and peaked eyebrows of a half-elf, but her shape was somewhat plump and
matronly for a woman of her race. Next to her, six gold coins rested in a shallow basket
woven from the fronds of a soap tree. The woman did not turn to face the Tyrian.

“Is it not customary in Balic to greet strangers?” Tithian asked. His voice echoed through
the still chamber as though he had struck a gong.

“Lady Canace cannot hear you,” said Maurus, walking toward him. “Neither can she see you.”

The Tyrian stepped around to face the woman. Ugly red burn marks scarred her sunken
eyelids, leaving Tithian with the impression that she had no eyeballs.

Maurus stopped at the Tyrian's side, then placed a finger on the woman's lower lip. She
jumped as though startled, then allowed her mouth to be pulled open wide. In place of a
tongue, she had only a mangled stump.

“King Andropinis values the advice of his patricians,” the templar said flatly. “But he
also wishes to be certain that anything occurring here is never discussed outside the
White Palace.”

“A wise precaution,” Tithian observed, stepping away from the woman. “It's unfortunate he
is not so prudent with his chamberlain.”

Maurus closed Lady Canace's mouth and whirled around to reply, but an acid comment from
the throne cut him off. “Do not anger my chamberlain,” said the voice. “It is the same as
angering me.”

Tithian looked toward the throne and saw a huge man before the pedestal. He stood taller
than an elf and was as heavily muscled as a mul. On his head, a fringe of chalk-colored
hair hung from beneath a jagged crown of silver. He had a slender face, a nose so long it
could almost be called a snout, and dark nostrils shaped like eggs. His cracked lips were
pulled back to reveal a mouthful of teeth filed as sharp as those of a gladiator. Unlike
the patricians, he did not dress in a toga. Instead, he wore a sleeveless tunic of white
silk, a breechcloth of silver fabric, and soft leather boots.

“King Andropinis,” Tithian said. He did not bow, and his voice betrayed no sign of awe or
reverence.

Andropinis did not answer, instead turning away to take his throne. As the Balkan climbed
the stairs, it became apparent that he was not entirely human. Beneath his tunic, a line
of sharp bulges ran down the length of his spine, while small, pointed scales covered the
back sides of his arms.

Andropinis took his seat in the throne, then glared around the chamber.
We are in chamber, my advisors,
he said, using the Way to broadcast his thoughts directly into the minds of everyone
present.

The patricians rose from their seats, each holding a shallow soap tree basket in his or
her hands. Tithian waited for the room to grow quiet again, then nodded to the
chamberlain. “Announce me.”

Maurus motioned him forward. “I suggest you announce yourself,” he replied. “This audience
is your doing, not mine.”

Tithian walked forward until he stood before the throne. Andropinis's white eyes glared at
him, as cold and stinging as hail, and the Balican said nothing. Compared to Kalak's
pitiful form, this sorcerer-king seemed a brute. He looked as though he could bite a man
in two or rip a half-giant's head off with his bare hands. Yet Tithian knew appearances
could be deceiving. He had seen Kalak, as frail and decrepit as a hundred-year-old woman,
kill slaves with no more than a glance and snap muls' necks with a twist of his wrist.

The one who stands before you is Tithian the First, King of Tyr.

Andropinis was off his throne and towering over Tithian before the king realized he had
moved.

“Your identity is no concern of my patricians,” the Balican said quietly, clenching the
smaller king's shoulders. His fingers dug into Tithian's flesh like talons, and his breath
smelled as though he had been eating burnt cork. “Be kind enough to speak with your
tongue.”

“If you wish,” Tithian replied. Moving with deliberate steadiness, he reached up and
gently pushed Andropinis's hand away from his shoulder. “And please remember that you
address the long of Tyr.”

“You may have killed Kalak, but you are no king.” replied Andropinis. He circled Tithian
slowly, looking him up and down. “You know nothing of being a king.”

“I know enough to have won a war with Hamanu of Urik,” the Tyrian answered. Strictly
speaking, it had been Rikus who had won that war, but Tithian had been claiming credit for
the victory so long that he had forgotten the distinction. “And I have won the favor of
Borys of Ebe-the Dragon of Athas.”

Andropinis stopped at TIthian's side. “You should not banter the Dragon's ancient name
about,” he warned, hissing into his guest's ear.

“I did not come to banter, as you shall see if we may discuss the reason for my visit,”
Tithian replied.

Andropinis nodded, then stepped toward the gallery where his nobles stood. “We will
discuss it while I accept gifts from the patricians.”

Tithian went into the tiers at Andropinis's side. Maurus fetched a large wooden basin from
behind the throne, then followed a step behind the two kings. The trio stopped at the side
of the first patrician, a wizened old man whose basket contained several glistening rubies.

Andropinis selected the largest gem and held it up to the light. “What do you want in
Balic, usurper?” he asked, addressing his guest without looking at him.

Tithian's answer was direct and to the point. “I need two thousand soldiers and the craft
to carry them over the Sea of Silt.”

Andropinis raised a brow, then took all the rubies from the old man's basket and dumped
them into the basin in the chamberlain's hands. “What makes you believe I would give them
to you?”

Tithian gestured at the satchel on Maurus's shoulder. “If I may?”

Andropinis considered the request for a moment, then nodded. “But if you draw a weapon-”

“I'm not that foolish,” Tithian said. He took the satchel from Maurus's shoulder, then
slipped a hand inside. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing one of the sacks of gold
he had placed in the satchel before leaving his own palace in Tyr. When he had a dear
image of it in his mind, he opened his hand. An instant later, he felt a wad of coarse
cloth in his palm. Groaning with effort, he withdrew a heavy bag, bulging with coins and
nearly as large as the satchel itself. He placed it in Maurus's basin, opening the top to
reveal the yellow sheen of gold.

Andropinis stared coldly at the coins. “Do you think to buy my favor with that?”

“Not your favor,” Tithian replied. “Your men and your ships.” When the Balkan's face
remained stony, he added, “I'll pay the other half when I return, along with compensation
for any losses we incur.”

“And what of the losses I have already suffered?” demanded Andropinis.

“What losses would those be?”

“Five years ago, Tyr did not pay its levy to the Dragon, and it fell to me to give him a
thousand extra slaves,” he said. “I couldn't finish the great wall I had been building to
enclose my croplands. Perhaps you heard about what happened next?”

“The Peninsula Rampage?” Tithian asked, thinking of the short-lived war in which a small
army of giants had overrun most of the Balkan Peninsula.

“The rampage cost me half my army and destroyed a quarter of my fields,” Andropinis said,
turning away from Tithian. He went to the woman next in line and examined her basket, then
nodded for Maurus to take the contents.
“I
doubt there's enough gold in your magic satchel to pay me back for that,” he added,
glancing at his guest.

“You can build another wall,” Tithian retorted. “But I still need your fleet. I demand it
on the Dragon's behalf.”

“Do not think to bluff me by invoking his name. I should kill you for that,” hissed
Andropinis. He clamped a hand around Tithian's throat. “Perhaps I will.”

“I'm not lying,” Tithian said. “You'll realize that when I show you my prisoners.”

Tithian reached into his satchel and visualized a chain of black iron. When he felt it in
his fingers, he pulled his hand free of the bag, bringing with it the chain, which was
attached at either end to a square iron cage containing a disembodied head. As they were
removed from the bag, the two prisoners glared briefly at Tithian, then focused their eyes
on Andropinis.

“Kill him, Mighty King!” hissed the first head. He had a shriveled face and ashen skin,
with sunken features and cracked, leathery lips. “Slit Tithian's throat and drop him close
to me!”

“No, give me the throat!” growled the other. He was bloated and gross, with puffy cheeks,
eyes swollen to dark slits, and a mouthful of gray broken teeth. Like the first head, he
wore his coarse hair in a topknot, and the bottom of his neck had been stitched shut with
wiry thread. He licked the bars of his cage with a pointed tongue, then continued, “And
let the coward live. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I drink his life!”

Andropinis took the cages from Tithian, at the same time removing his hand from the
Tyrian's throat. “Wyan, Sacha!” he said. “Borys told me that he had disposed of you two.”

“Rajaat's magic is not countered so easily,” spat the bloated head, Sacha. “Now open this
imposter's veins, Albeorn. He hasn't fed us in weeks.”

“Albeom?” Tithian asked.

“Albeorn of Dunswich, Slayer of Elves, the Eighth Champion of Rajaat,” snarled Wyan.
“Traitor to his master and the righteous cause of the Pristine Tower.”

Tithian knew that Wyan referred to a genocidal war that an ancient sorcerer named Rajaat
had started several millennia earlier. It had ended more than a thousand years ago, when
all of Rajaat's handpicked champions-with the exceptions of Sacha and Wyan -had turned
against him. After overthrowing their master, the rebels had used his most powerful
magical artifact to transform one of their own number, Borys of Ebe, into the Dragon. The
other champions had each claimed one of the cities of Athas to rule as an immortal
sorcerer-king.

Still studying the caged heads, Andropinis asked, “These two are your proof of the
Dragon's favor?”

Tithian nodded. “When he said he had disposed of them, he meant that he had entrusted them
to me,” said the Tyrian. “They're acting as my unwilling tutors, so I might learn to serve
our master as a sorcerer-king.”

This seemed to amuse the Balkan. “Is that so?” he asked, raising his brow.

“Of course not,” sneered Wyan. “He's lying.”

“Kill him!” hissed Sacha.

Andropinis smashed the two cages into the stone tiers of the gallery. A tremendous clang
reverberated through the hall, making Tithian's ears ring. The heads slammed against the
bars of their prisons and bounced to the other sides, then dropped motionless and dazed to
the bottoms of the cages. When the Bali-can handed the chain back to Tithian, the corners
of each cage were folded in from the impact.

“For now, I'll accept these abominations as proof that the Dragon wouldn't want me to kill
you,” Andropinis said. “You may remove them from my sight-and tell me what you need with
my fleet.”

As Tithian stuffed his dazed tutors back into the satchel, he said, “That's the concern of
myself and Borys alone.”

“Then you may leave your gold and go. Our audience is at an end,” Andropinis said,
resuming his inspection of the baskets offered by his patricians. “The chamberlain's
guards will show you to the city gates.”

Maurus smirked and waved the Tyrian toward the exit.

Tithian ignored him, asking, “What of my ships?”

“You have none.”

“My demand is made in the Dragon's name!” Tithian snapped.

“Which is the only reason I suffer you to live, usurper,” Andropinis replied. He pulled a
wad of fleece from a basket held by a dwarven patrician, then used the Way to ask,
What is the meaning of this, lord Rolt?

House Rolt pledges a hundred sheep to feed Your Majesty's legions,
came the reply.

Andropinis scowled, then grabbed the dwarf's thick wrist and snapped it effortlessly. A
garbled howl of pain rose from Lord Rolfs throat and his knees buckled. Had the king not
been holding him up by his broken arm, he would have fallen to the floor.

Despite his pain, the dwarf managed to reply,
House Roll pledges a thousand sheep, Mighty King.

Smiling, Andropinis released the patrician and allowed him to collapse to the floor. He
glanced down, leaving no doubt in Tithian's mind that the exhibition had been for his
benefit, and moved on.

Ignoring the implied threat, Tithian continued to press his demand. “If you deny me, you
are also denying Borys.”

“Perhaps, but I will not send out my fleet-not for you, and certainly not now.”

“When?” asked Tithian.

Andropinis shrugged. “Perhaps in a month, perhaps not for many years,” he said. “When the
war between the giant tribes is over.”

“Which tribes are at war?” Tithian asked.