Glasswrights' Progress (41 page)

“You need hardly remind me,” Hal said dryly. “I'm aware of my enemy's strength.” He paused for a moment and felt a tumbler click into place. “Wait! What are you saying? Does the Fellowship intend
Sin Hazar
to be its Royal Pilgrim?”

“No!” Tasuntimanu's protest was almost too hasty; he exclaimed like a man awakening from a nightmare. His breath came faster as he protested, “Not Sin Hazar! He would be too strong, and he does not walk the paths of the Thousand Gods.”

“Then why preserve his kingdom? Why forbid me to fight him?”

“The Fellowship has already arranged to do away with Sin Hazar. All our actors are in place. If you call Sin Hazar out to battle, you risk upsetting plans that have been more than a decade in the making.”

“But if
I
don't stop him, who will?”

“The Yrathis.”

“What?” The answer was so unexpected that Hal could not believe that he had heard properly. “Tasuntimanu, you listened to our spies' report this afternoon. Sin Hazar has surrounded himself with mercenaries – there must be seven hundred of them. Even the Fellowship can't have bought off seven hundred Yrathi mercenaries.”

“Not seven hundred, Your Majesty. We only needed to turn a handful. Fewer than a dozen, all told.” Hal felt the confusion on his face, knew that he must look like a fool. Tasuntimanu leaned forward and enunciated his words as if he spoke to a child, but he packed a lifetime of passion into each word. “We bought the men closest to the throne. The Fellowship has purchased Sin Hazar's own guard.”

A chill convulsed Hal's spine, but he could not say what made him more afraid – the notion that the Fellowship had enough funds to corrupt Yrathi mercenaries, or the thought that the Fellowship could penetrate clear through to a king's – any king's! – inner circle. “But will that be enough?” he forced himself to ask. “Will Al-Marai be any easier to manipulate, for your purposes?”

“Al-Marai?” Tasuntimanu looked confused.

“Of course. If you eliminate Sin Hazar, then his heir will take the throne. His brother is next in line.”

Tasuntimanu laughed mirthlessly. “How little you know of these northerners, Your Majesty! Al-Marai is a lion, a soldier. He'll never sit on the Amanthian throne. Sin Hazar's crown will pass to the male child closest in a swan's line of descent. If Sin Hazar dies without issue, then Amanthia passes to –”

“Bashanorandi.” Hal traced the answer a heartbeat before Tasuntimanu could complete the diagram. “Felicianda's son would take the throne.”

“Aye. And Bashanorandi
will
be a weak king. He'll be a king the Fellowship can manipulate at will. When we open the door to war with the Liantines in a few years, Amanthia will fall like a child's toy soldier.”

Hal listened to his councillor, to a man discussing the toppling of kingdoms with the dispassion of an equerry setting forth thoroughbred bloodlines. “So when Bashi dragged Rani up here.…”

“The Fellowship rejoiced. We had thought we would have to tempt Bashanorandi to flee north, maybe even abduct him and drag him here. You see, after two years of doing nothing in your court, Bashanorandi seemed to have accepted his fate. Some of us argued that you must be forced to banish him, regardless of any sentimental notions you harbored in your father's memory. But First Pilgrim Jair blessed us, in his infinite wisdom. Bashanorandi made his move, just as we cemented our bonds with the Yrathis. We've hardly needed to pay a month's extra wages to keep the mercenaries in our employ.”

A mechanical part of Hal's mind noted the gloating tone in Tasuntimanu's voice. A fine bargain the Fellowship had struck, and economical besides! How admirable for the Fellowship. “But Bashi did not come up here alone. He abducted Rani and Mair.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Tasuntimanu sounded perplexed.

“And Rani Trader and Mair belonged to your Fellowship!”

“They were sworn to our ways, yes.”

“But did they ever know the sacrifice they made? Did they ever know your plans for the Amanthian throne?”

“Of course not, Your Majesty. We weren't ready to share the dream of the Royal Pilgrim with all our members. It would have become common knowledge in a fortnight.”

Hal heard the explanation – clear, simple, beyond debate. Part of him wanted to cry out, to denounce the Fellowship's folly. They were twisting people's
lives
! They were manipulating living, breathing people, people who were sacred to the Thousand Gods!

But another part of Hal was numbed by the beauty of their plan. Conquer Amanthia from within. Set a puppet on the throne. Use the Amanthian caste system against the kingdom. How much the Fellowship saw.… How much they understood!

“And if I challenge Sin Hazar, then all your plans fall apart.”

Tasuntimanu nodded, and a smile broke across his broad face for the first time during this exchange. Hal felt as if he were a slow pupil who had finally grasped a lesson, a sensation that was only heightened by his councillor proclaiming, “Precisely, Your Majesty!”

“If I conquer Amanthia, then it becomes part of Morenia.
I
take Sin Hazar's throne. Not Bashanorandi.”

“You see why we cannot let that happen! Not with the outlay from our treasury to purchase the Yrathis. Not with the years we've spent measuring the Amanthians. Not with our plans for the Liantines.”

Hal saw more than that. He saw the unspoken threat behind Tasuntimanu's words. If the Fellowship intended to let Hal stay in power, if they intended to let him rule Morenia for his natural life, then they would be content to let him add Amanthia to his kingdom. They'd be content to let him win the current battle and revel in the spoils.

The Fellowship had other plans for Hal.

The king shook his head in disbelief, wondering how he could have been so foolish, how he could have trusted the shadowy body of plotters. He forced himself to say, “And you expect me to concede, just like that.”

How had he ever believed in the Fellowship? How had he trusted their machinations? Yet, even as he marveled at their manipulative evil, Hal realized that he had long known the Fellowship's willingness to tinker with monarchies. He'd accepted their assistance blithely enough when his own throne was on the line. He'd welcomed the Fellowship when they had helped to destroy Felicianda's treacherous plot in Morenia.

Enough. It was time to end this farce. Hal planted his hands on the altar and squared his shoulders as he leaned toward Tasuntimanu. “I'll never give in to your Fellowship, Tasuntimanu.”

“Your Majesty?”

“You are right. I
should
have spoken with you more in Morenia. I should have spoken with you often on the long trail north. I should have made it perfectly clear that I will never –
never
! – permit the Fellowship to dictate how I rule my kingdom.”

“Your Majesty, you must not say such things. It is dangerous to speak in absolutes.”

“Dangerous? Let me explain danger, Tasuntimanu. It is
dangerous
to threaten me. It is
dangerous
to foment rebellion. It is
dangerous
to speak treason to the king of all Morenia!”

Tasuntimanu reacted faster than Hal had thought possible. One moment, the man was standing before him, fat and placid, his pudgy hands easy at his side. The next instant, he had unsheathed his sword and lunged across the altar.

If Hal had not reflexively stumbled backwards, he would have been decapitated by Tasuntimanu's blow. “Guards!” Hal bellowed, putting all his rage into the cry. “Guards! To me!”

Tasuntimanu gasped like a madman, swinging his sword wildly. “Danger! Danger, you say!” He upset the altar and swiped again at Hal, who darted behind a camp chair. The king fumbled for his knife, desperate to make his way to his bed, to his own sword. He had no breath to waste in calling again for his soldiers. Tasuntimanu bellowed, “You have not
known
 danger, Halaravilli ben-Jair!”

The councillor smashed through the camp chair, tangling his blade in its slotted back. Hal leaped to the side and tripped over a chest, a low casket that supported a map of the Amanthian capital. Hal fumbled for a weapon, for a pointer, anything at all. His fingers closed around a clay oil lamp, jostling the wick and splashing hot oil onto his palm. For just an instant, he recoiled from the searing kiss of the wick, and then he hurled the lamp toward Tasuntimanu. Droplets of oil cascaded through the air, raining down fire on the councillor.

As Tasuntimanu roared in rage and pain, Hal lunged over the chest, scrambling at last toward his cot and his sword. Then, the tent was full of armed men, echoing with the clatter of commands, the clang of sword on sword. “Beware!” Hal exclaimed from the cot, even as one of his soldiers sprawled on top of him, protecting him from the Fellowship's insane messenger. “He's mad!”

Hal craned his neck to see over his defender. One soldier used his own sword to catch at the hilt of Tasuntimanu's, pulling away the councillor's weapon. Two other guards dove forward, seizing the traitor's arms and forcing him to the ground. The earth crushed out the last sparks from the oil lamp, leaving behind the stench of burnt wool and singed hair. Yet another guard knelt in the middle of Tasuntimanu's back, setting a mailed fist across his neck.

Only after the traitor was further subdued with a pair of sharp jabs delivered to his lower back did Hal succeed in pushing off his protector. The king's chest seemed too small for his pounding heart as he fought for his feet, and he gladly seized his guard's hand, grateful for the assistance. He was vaguely aware that his palm was singed; his side was bruised. The breath was knocked clear from his lungs, though, when he saw which man had interposed his body to save his liege. “Puladarati!”

The old councillor was gasping for his own breath, his lion's mane of grey standing out around his face as if he'd been caught in a storm. “Aye, Your Majesty.”

“But – I thought –”

“My liege, you're injured!” The former regent snapped out a command to one of the soldiers, ordering the chirurgeon to be summoned. Before the medic could arrive, Puladarati guided Hal to a camp chair, his large hands gentle as he eased his king to a sitting position. “Breathe deeply, Sire. You've only had the wind knocked out of you.”

“Only –” Hal paused to gasp, a reaction that was only made more necessary by
Puladarati sinking down before him, kneeling like the most humble of supplicants in the House of the
Thousand Gods. Before Hal could act, the silver-haired councillor had pulled a silver-chased dagger
from his well-worn boot.

Even as Hal registered that the older man was offering up the weapon, was turning the hilt toward his king and resting the sharpened edge against his own forearm, Hal recognized the blade. It had been his father's, long ago. It had belonged to King Shanoranvilli, one of the treasures of the old king's line, supposedly passed from father to son. “Your Majesty,” Puladarati intoned, ignoring the stunned look that Hal knew painted his own face. The duke glanced toward the restrained Tasuntimanu, his eyes sharp as daggers. “I failed you, by letting that ... that traitor gain access to your person in the dark of night. I've failed your father and let fall the faith he placed in me. I am not worthy to bear his gift. I am not worthy to serve you, Your Majesty.”

“You –” Hal was still having trouble breathing, still finding it difficult to
piece together the fragments before him. His hand pulsed where it was burned, and he was only now
able to fill his lungs against the shooting pain in his side. Shaking his head, he reached out and
settled his unburned palm upon the hilt of the silver-chased dagger. In a flash, he could picture
his father, imagine the old king giving up the blade to his most trusted of retainers. “Puladarati,
I thought that you... that you and Tasuntimanu.… I thought –”

The leonine councillor's eyes widened for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face. “And I thought that you were a rebellious boy, who was reluctant to take advice from his elders. Even when those elders mistrusted some of your closest councillors. Even when those elders appointed themselves to watch over your councillors, to stay close to the danger.”

A hot wave washed over Hal's face, a steaming mixture of shame and gratitude, all coated with searing relief. “My father chose you, Puladarati. I should have known.…”

“Aye. And if all princes listened to their fathers – ” Puladarati grasped Hal's
arm, holding him upright against the sudden darkness that swooped across his vision. The old man's
three-fingered grip was as firm as iron. “Steady, Sire! Here. Sip this. It's wine.”

“Your Grace –”

“Drink, my prince. It wasn't so long ago that I was your regent – I can still force this down your throat, if you don't follow my orders.” Hal heard the gruff affection in the man's voice, saw the smile in his full beard. The first sip of wine brought a steadiness to Hal's breathing, a balance to his whirling head.

“Very well, Duke Puladarati.” Hal looked to his other soldiers, to the other loyal men who surrounded Tasuntimanu. “I'll drink it down. But not until you get that cursed traitor out of my sight.”

Puladarati bowed and gestured a command to the soldiers. “My pleasure, Your Majesty. My most extreme pleasure.”

 

 

Chapter 14

 

 

Rani's breath plumed as she looked out over the Amanth Plain. Campfire embers still glowed softly, and there were occasional jangles of harness and exclamations from soldiers who should have been asleep. Glancing at the stars, Rani could see that it was nearly midnight. There were precious few hours before sunrise, before sunrise and Teleos' return to open water with the Little Army.

Crestman's cloak was a welcome warmth across her shoulders. As if the young soldier heard her thoughts, he eased close beside her and whispered. “Not much farther. Their guards should stop us soon.”