Storm and Steel (12 page)

Lord Pumash raised his glass in a toast. “To new acquaintances and the opportunities they bring.”

“An interesting toast,” Mebishnu said after he had tried the wine.

“I'm always keen on meeting new people. After all, mutual advantage is the lifeblood of a vibrant trade practice.”

“I would be interested in hearing more about your practice, Lord Pumash. I admit I know very little about you save your reputation for honest dealings.”

The nobleman placed a hand on his chest and dropped his chin in a deep nod. “Your words honor me. In my line of trade, a man's good name is more precious than gold. I deal mainly in exotic goods, such as precious metals, expert crafts, rare spices, and specialty slaves.”

“Specialty slaves?”

“Yes. Such as Lena here, for instance.” Lord Pumash looked to the slave woman. “She was brought from Etonia.”

“She's a crusader's woman?”

“Precisely. That alone lends her a special value. But she has also been trained to be a court companion. She's an exquisite dancer. She sings and plays several instruments. She even composes poetry in three languages.”

“Remarkable.”

“Yes, quite. She has a keen mind, which allows for the highest level of training. Thus, she is worth much, much more. You would not believe some of the offers I've received for her, just in this camp alone.”

Mebishnu nodded as he took a drink. Talk of money and trade bored him, as was only proper. Abdiel did not approve of
zoanii
sullying themselves with such matters. That's what accounting slaves were for.

Lena served a first course of honeyed figs with a white wine. Mebishnu took a bite out of courtesy.

Lord Pumash gestured to Mebishnu's plate, “Is the food not to your liking? I can have something else prepared. Bring the oranges for Lord Mebishnu.”

His master wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “No. Please, forgive me. It's just that I am eager to hear why you requested this meeting. As you mentioned, we are not acquainted. Our families, as far as I know, have not done business together. What can I do for you?”

“Ah, it's not what you can do for me, Eminence. But rather what we can do for each other. You came here on a specific mission, did you not? To goad these kings into action against the queen of Erugash.”

“I've made no secret of my mission, Lord Pumash. Your sources are correct, as far as that goes.”

“And,” Lord Pumash said as he speared a fig with his fork, “you have no doubt already ascertained the source of the resistance to this plan, eh? No need to answer. You, too, are preceded by your reputation. Each of our royal hosts blames the other for the delay. Ramsu blames Moloch for gathering the armies here so far from his lands. Sumuel blames Moloch for attempting to take the lion's share of the anticipated spoils. And Moloch blames them both for feeding off his largesse.”

Impressive. He must have well-placed spies in the households of all three monarchs.

“Let us assume for the sake of debate that what you've said is true.” Mebishnu leaned back, holding his wine cup. “What is it to you? You've still not told me what you want.”

“To help you. To be more precise, I wish to help your mission succeed in the removal of Queen Byleth from power.”

“If your sources have told you that I need or want outside interference, then they missed the mark.”

Lord Pumash leaned back as well, mirroring Mebishnu's posture. “But you do, my lord. Need assistance, that is. Because no matter what these kings have told you, it is all a sham.”

Mebishnu's eyebrows came together in a line. Abdiel knew well that expression and he prayed that Lord Pumash would not further antagonize his master. “Explain what you mean,” Mebishnu said.

“Whatever the kings say, the true reason they do not move from this spot is fear.”

The two slaves cleared the first course and set down a platter of roasted lamb on a bed of wild rice and lentils. Lena cut generous portions for both of them, serving Mebishnu first and her master second. Only after they had each taken a bite and exchanged appreciative nods did Mebishnu speak. “Fear of what?”

“Queen Byleth has a new
zoanii
in her court. A foreigner with extraordinary power. Some say he was responsible for the destruction of your temple in Erugash. It is also said this man may have the power to control the chaos storms.”

Mebishnu sipped from his glass and then wiped his mouth with the cloth again. “Rumors are a dangerous thing to trust. One must always consider the source.”

Lord Pumash smiled, revealing his white teeth. “I agree completely. Believe me when I say I would not have mentioned these things if my sources were not impeccable.”

Yes, this is all very interesting and mysterious, Lord Pumash, but enough with the games. Time to put your tiles on the table.

“In this case, your rumors are accurate. This savage comes from the West beyond the ocean. He is known to possess the
zoana
, although reports of his prowess vary. One of our envoys was attempting to neutralize this threat—”

“You speak of Menarch Rimesh.”

Mebishnu's jaws clenched at the interruption. “Yes. The same. The menarch was attempting to neutralize—”

“I'm afraid he is dead.”

Abdiel almost gasped aloud. That information was a carefully guarded secret. Few outside the Temple hierarchy even suspected it.

Mebishnu, to his credit, recovered with grace. “I cannot confirm that.”

“No need, Your Eminence. You have my condolences. Were you close to Menarch Rimesh?”

“No. I only met him once, years ago.”

Abdiel remembered that meeting as well. It had been at the high holy festival of
Shamaz
almost a decade ago, when Mebishnu was still enrolled at the Order's academy. Rimesh et'Caliphane had been a well-known personage within the school. Some had believed he might one day ascend to the Primarchy.

“He was a most devout servant of our Lord,” Mebishnu said. “And will be sorely missed. But we were talking about something else.”

“The queen's foreigner,” Lord Pumash said.

“Whatever power he might possess, no man can withstand the might of Amur. You and our hosts must have faith.”

“Faith is fine and good, but these kings will want assurances that the cult of the Sun God is focused on this problem.”

Ah, and now we come to meat of the matter.

“I am here, am I not?” Mebishnu asked. “What greater assurance could they ask for?”

“Your Eminence, I'm afraid these three rulers are more moved by matters of flesh and coin than holy writs, if you'll excuse my candor.”

“And that's where your assistance comes into play?”

“Exactly.”

Both slaves came to clear the table. A pitcher of plum-colored wine was placed in the center, and then the slaves withdrew to a corner of the tent. Lord Pumash offered more drink, but Mebishnu placed a hand over his cup. “My lord?”

“King Ramsu owes my cartel a significant sum of money. His Majesty
has a penchant for gambling—chariot races in particular—but abysmal luck. In exchange for a more lenient return rate, I believe he would be agreeable to making good on his commitment to this campaign. Likewise, King Sumuel's youngest son was born with poor lungs and relies on a rare pollen from the Far East to live, a substance which only my company can provide. I think you understand where this is going, eh?”

“I think I do. So, speaking in the hypothetical, how soon do you believe you can convince the leaders of this army to begin moving on Erugash?”

“That depends on you.”

And now we come to real topic of this meeting. Lord Pumash's compensation.

Mebishnu tapped his left hand on the edge of the table, indicating his host should continue. Lord Pumash set down his glass. “In addition to goading these kings into action, my cartel will assist with provisioning and transportation for the army. In exchange, when Erugash is back under the control of your cult, we will be granted complete control of all trade within the city. In perpetuity.”

Abdiel held his breath as he waited for his master's reaction. Yet Mebishnu sat still, showing nothing on his face. After several breaths, he said, “Agreed. Do you require documentation from the hierarchy endorsing my decision?”

“Not at all. We are both men of our word. What we have forged here tonight will remain ironclad.”

Mebishnu got up from his seat. “When can I expect to see results, Lord Pumash?”

“I have already sent messages to begin the process, Your Eminence. I was reasonably confident we could reach an understanding. By tomorrow morning, this army will begin its march into history.”

I wager you were. And what if my master had not taken the bait? Would you be pulling strings to ensure that his mission was doomed?

With a nod of his head, Mebishnu departed. Abdiel bowed to their host before trailing back out into the night. He and Brother Opiru had to hurry to keep up as his master strode through the encampment.

“I don't like the look of it.”

Jirom nodded, shading his eyes against the late afternoon sun. The village sat in a vast dustbowl in the southern flats of the Iron Desert. Mud-brick buildings huddled around a dusty stretch of road, their backs turned to the desert wastes. Cool winds scoured it, filling the spaces between the buildings with grit and sand. The windows were covered with wooden shutters, sand-blasted like the brick faces around them.

He and Emanon lay side by side at the top of a dune overlooking the settlement. They had ridden across the wastes like all the demons of hell were on their tail, sleeping in brief snatches, eating as they traveled. The men were exhausted, and the animals were in worse shape. They needed someplace to rest.

“It looks like it was hit by a storm not long ago,” Jirom said. “But I think it'll be safe if just a few of us enter and try not to attract attention.”

Emanon crawled back down from the summit and rolled over onto his back. “I'd rather just keep moving. We can't be more than a day or two from the river.”

“More like four. You care to tell me about this gathering we're heading toward?”

“I don't know much about it myself. You were there when I got word of it.”

“But you have an idea what we'll find there.”

Emanon grunted. “You don't want to hear my suspicions.”

“Fine. In that case the men need a break before they fall apart. Two of the horses have thrown shoes, and it's only a matter of time before one or both of them pull up lame. Then we either ditch the gold or pull the wagon ourselves.”

“We're not leaving the gold.”

“Then we need to stop. And we could also use some information. We've been marching blind out here for a while now.”

Emanon spat into the sand and wiped his mouth with the back of a gauntleted hand. “You think this little shit hole is going to have any information worth hearing?”

“You never know. Traders make their way out this far. I passed through here once, years ago. We were making our way up to Nemedia. Or trying to, at least. We got this far before our captain decided to turn around.”

“He got cold feet?”

“Our previous commander had died from an arrow through the spleen just a month before, and we elected one of the sergeants to take his place. It wasn't a good fit. Taeblor was a good squad leader, but he didn't have the chops for the head job. He took us back to Bylos, where we settled in as an arm of the local garrison.”

“Guarding grocers and sheep all day doesn't sound like you.”

“I didn't stick around for long. Signed on with another company and marched the hell away from there.”

“You don't talk about your past much.”

“It was a long time ago, Em. What's done is done. Anyway, if I'm right, then we'll find what we need here.”

Emanon scratched his stubbly chin. “I still don't know about this idea of yours. That gold could supply us for…well, for fucking ever. Wasting it on mercs just doesn't seem wise.”

Jirom glanced over his shoulder to the wagon sitting at the bottom of the dune. Their team sprawled out around the vehicle like a pack of beaten dogs. “These men have courage, but they aren't ready to stand toe-to-toe with Akeshian soldiers. If you want this rebellion to do more than just hit supply depots and undermanned border stations, we need professional fighters.”

“And this is the place? It doesn't look big enough to even have a name.”

“It's called Inshem. If you want to hire unattached sellswords, this is the place.”

Emanon sighed. “All right. This is your world. Let's do it.”

They climbed down to the others. Emanon selected Jerkul's squad to accompany them, left orders for the rest to dig in, and then they set off. They took the two horses that needed shoeing and left the rest behind.

The road leading into the town was more of a trough, scoured by wind and sand. The town's appearance didn't improve as they got closer. Jirom might have taken it for abandoned if not for a handful of people he'd seen walking about. He was fairly certain this was the right place, but he'd seen hundreds of dusty villages during his travels, and after a while they all started to look alike.

“Why does the empire allow such a place to survive?” Emanon asked. “Why not just wipe them out?”

“The Akeshians use mercenaries, too.” The noises of a cheering crowd came from a cluster of shanties arranged in a loose circle on the town's western edge. Jirom paused for a few seconds, listening. “Erugash used to supplement its legions with sellswords. Then they started pressing slaves into the armies.”

He broke off from the squad and headed in the direction of the noise.

“Jirom!” Emanon called after him.

Jirom nodded toward the circle of shacks. “Look for a hostel on the main street. It's the only three-story building in town. I'll meet you there.”

“Main street? This hog sty only has one street!”

Jirom left the road and made his way across the uneven ground. This was probably a bad idea, but he couldn't help himself.

The collection of small buildings off from the main village formed a shoddy arena. Gladiator games were popular entertainment with mercs. He himself had watched them in his past life, and the irony hadn't escaped him during his own enslavement into the sport.

Wooden stands were set up inside the circle of buildings, surrounding a deep pit carved out of the rocky soil. It was tiny, maybe ten paces across. Down in the hole, two men fought with clubs. The brutal smacks as their weapons struck home resounded around the cheap arena. The audience of about fifty people—mostly men—shouted encouragement as the two fighters brawled for their pleasure. It reminded him of some of the worst places he'd fought in.

As the people watched the fight, Jirom found himself scanning the crowd. He wondered how he'd feel if he saw Thraxes in the stands. He couldn't make up his mind whether he would kill him or buy him a drink. For better or worse, there was no sign of his former owner. Nothing except the memories of painful times, that is.

“Two coppers.”

Jirom turned to the man who'd come up to him. He was probably in his late twenties, tall and lean, with a deep tan complexion. He held out a tin cup. “It's two coppers to watch the fights. Everyone has to pa—”

The man glanced at the brands on Jirom's cheek and stepped away. Then he turned and disappeared behind the stands.

Not wanting to attract any more notice, Jirom left the arena and headed into the village proper. As the shouts and groans faded behind him, he considered his plan to find suitable fighters for Emanon's cause. They had to be of high quality with a good reputation, but those kinds of mercenaries were rare and demanded the highest fees. Maybe more than he could offer.
Especially to help a bunch of ragtag slaves go up against the most powerful empire in the world. They'd have to be more than a little crazy to sign up for that.

He passed between the outer buildings into the middle of town. Emanon hadn't been exaggerating. This town only had one real artery that passed through its center. The buildings on either side varied from small shacks made from odds and ends to the three-story hostelry that dominated the center square. Surrounding the hostel were three brothels, five taverns, and a smattering of flophouses.

There weren't many people out on the street. As he walked to the hostel, Jirom spotted a pair of men in the doorway of the nearest and largest brothel. By the flashes of steel under their cloaks and the way they stood, relaxed but alert, hands near their belts, he took them for mercenaries. One of them was young with a chubby face. The other was older and missing an eye.

Trying not to stare at them, Jirom resisted the compulsion to reach down and make sure his sword was loose in its scabbard as he went into the hostel.

The sunlight penetrated a few feet into the interior before it was swallowed by the room's natural gloom. The floor was covered in sawdust. Tables sat along the unadorned walls, leaving the center area vacant. A doorway separated the front room from the back of house, and a set of steps climbed to the second floor. An army of eyes turned toward him.

Less than half of the tables were occupied. A few patrons stood rather than sit in the low-backed chairs and benches scattered about. Everyone was armed,
and almost everyone wore some kind of armor over grubby clothing. Jirom spotted Emanon and his crew sitting around a pair of tables against the left-side wall and went over to join them.

Emanon pushed out a chair for Jirom with his foot. “Friendly crowd in here. What's the plan? You
do
have a plan for this, right?”

Jirom glanced around the dark room, trying to make out faces. He didn't remember much about the last time he was here. He'd been inebriated most of the time. He vaguely recalled having to leave town in a hurry, though he couldn't remember why. “Just try to blend in. The interested parties will come to us.”

That's what he hoped. He'd always been on the other side of these kinds of transactions, selling his sword instead of buying. But he'd seen it done enough times to know what to look for. The desperate crews would approach first, the companies that needed a fast infusion of gold to pay off debtors, and the sorts who would take any job because their skills didn't allow them to be picky about their employers. The rebels needed to be patient until the bigger fish came out to look them over.

It also didn't pay to be too obvious about what they were looking for. The men who gathered in places like this were often short-tempered and suspicious. They had to be in order to survive in a profession where only the strongest and most dangerous prevailed.

There are no old mercs
, one of his former captains had told him.
Only empty purses and broken promises.

“What about them?” Emanon jerked his chin toward a crowded table across the room.

The men seated there were involved in a quiet conversation, their heads huddled together. They looked the part—dirty, ragged, a little desperate—but Jirom shook his head. He was looking for a specific sort of hired sword. Those who said there was no honor among mercenaries were liars, but it wasn't a common attribute either. He wouldn't trust Emanon's cause to the sort of sellsword who would take their coin and turn tail at the first sign of trouble. Nor to the kind that would sell them out to a higher bidder. They needed men who knew the value of loyalty.
Maybe I'm fooling myself. Or maybe I've been out of the life so long I can't tell the good from the bad anymore.

Jirom was about to suggest they order something to eat when a rough voice spoke behind him in the argot used by southern mercenaries.

“I saw you.”

Jirom turned to the man standing at his shoulder. He was of average height but built like a bullock with a broad chest and bulging shoulders. His skin was dark ebony, and he had ritualistic white scars across his cheeks. Weapons hung from his body—two swords, several knives, an obsidian war-axe tucked into his belt.

Just as Jirom was about to say they'd never met before, the man repeated, “I saw you. In Takharet.”

Takharet? That name rings true, though I can't place it.

“You killed three men that day.”

Now he remembered. Takharet was a shitty little town like this one, just another on the long chain of places where he'd been forced to fight in the pits. So what was this man's problem? Had one of those dead men been his brother or a friend? Jirom's left hand drifted down to his sword. “I've killed a lot of men. What's that to you?”

The wide man stared for a few seconds, and then smiled, his thumbs stuffed into the expanse of his broad belt. “I never forget a good fighter. I made a lot of money on you that day. Hey, are you still fighting?” He gestured over in the general direction of the outdoor arena.

Jirom shook his head. “No. Not anymore.”

“Too bad, eh? You were truly magnificent.”

The big man clapped Jirom on the shoulder. “These men drink on me!”

Then he walked away, his heavy strides shaking the floorboards. Jirom waited quietly, avoiding Emanon's pointed glances.

“I think he liked you,” the rebel captain whispered with his famous wolfish grin.

“Shut up,” Jirom grumbled back.

Footsteps on the stairs made them both look around. A lean man stood on the bottom step, looking in their direction. He didn't wear armor, but a pair of long knives rested on his belt. They looked well-used. Then Jirom noticed his face.
O holy of holies. Can it be?

“What?” Emanon asked. He gazed at the man on the stairs. “You know him?”

I did. Once upon a time. And I never thought to see him again on this side of the grave.

The man gestured. It was subtle, but the message was clear.
Follow me.

Jirom got up. “Stay here. I'll be back soon.”

“The hell I will.” Emanon stood to join him. “I go where you go.”

Jirom clenched his teeth but decided not to argue. “All right. But let me do the talking.”