The Right Hand of God (69 page)

Leith took his eyes off the sixteen kings and instead surveyed the first row of seats. Sitting there were the people now collectively known as the Captains of Faltha: the surviving members of the Company, the leaders of the losian Army of the North, the admiral of the Southern army and other leaders of the Falthan army.

Near the aisle sat his parents. His mother's eyes were clear in a way they had not been since the death of her elder son, but even as Leith looked on her, he saw her glance up to her right, to where Hal watched over them all.

Modahl had taken the seat next to his son, whose bitter anger at his abandonment by the famous Trader had moderated. They seemed at least to be talking, and Mahnum had willingly acted as his father's second at the grizzled old man's recent wedding to the Ice Queen of Sna Vaztha. Indeed,

Mahnum seemed proud that he would have kings for both father and son.

The music gentled, the strings softened, the trumpeters took their seats and were replaced by flutes and recorders, supported by the plucked strings of Phemanderac's new harp, of Dhaurian make.

Leith gazed at the people he loved. Farr would leave in the morning, accompanying the remaining commanders of the losian Army of the North on their homeward journey. He had stated his intention to visit Mjolkbridge to report the death of his brother and how he was avenged, but then he would return to Vindstrop House to take over the trading post recently left empty by the death of its proprietor. Maendraga and his daughter Belladonna had made their home in Old Struere, in the heart of the poor district, having taken lodgings with Foilzie who had used the money given her by her Escaignian friend to purchase one of the rebuilt tenements. Bella had made clear her affection for Phemanderac, and struggled to accept the friendship that was the best the Dhaurian could offer. Nevertheless, her laughter could often be heard echoing along the corridors of the Hall of Lore, overlaying his mock exasperation at her antics as they rummaged through the archives of Instruere. As the harp rang clear through the hall, her face lifted towards the musicians' balcony, her rapt intensity a clear message of the feelings beneath. And beside her Perdu sat with his family, his girls giggling at some joke, or perhaps at the bright clothing worn by the monarchs who now stood unmoving at the base of the stairs, clothing so unlike the plain but serviceable garments of the Fenni. They were to return to the vidda, and Leith would be sorry to see them leave.

The sixteen sovereigns turned and faced the gathered crowd, and the music mellowed, transmuting to a sedate waltz. As if conjured by magic, thirty-two costumed dancers sprang down the aisle on light feet, dresses and capes swirling as the music settled, then began to build. The celebration was drawing to a climax.

Leith had listened to Phemandefac's piece many times, had even offered untutored suggestions during its composition. But he had never heard it like it was being played today.

The dancers were being drawn up into the music as the notes ran together and climbed the scale, suddenly and unexpectedly to repeat the main theme in a glorious acclamation, this time with ten trumpets swelling the call to celebrate. Recognising his cue, he stood and ascended the stair as the music itself ascended, and took his seat on the great throne of Faltha as the trumpet-call rang out. He could no more keep the tears from his eyes than he could prevent the chills of awe from running down his spine. The orchestra came down from the heights, bringing their heavenly theme back to earth as they signalled the end of celebration and the beginning of Phemanderac's lament.

The King-designate of Faltha looked out over his subjects from the vantage point of his throne. Beyond the Captains of Faltha he could see a number of Pei-ratin, and recalled their story, perhaps the strangest of all. Forgotten by the Arrow-bearer, they had come still to offer their services in the hope that the kai-nan would be honoured, but had been held up by the blockade instituted by the Arkhos of Nemohaim. Finally they had broken through, and after resting for a day they had paddled up the Aleinus River until, some time after nightfall, they literally collided with a small flotilla of rowboats manned by the Lords of Fear, shepherding the Destroyer back to his army. The fighting had been short but vicious, and both sides had taken many casualties. In their magic-weakened state, and with a disabled master to protect, the Maghdi Dasht suffered their worst ever defeat, losing more than eighty warriors to the river-craftiness of their foe. A small graveyard had been laid out on the northern bank, and it was visited by the Pei-ratin when they returned from burying the names of their friends. The treaty had been concluded with the long-delayed meal, and Leith hoped that soon Astraea would be inhabited once again - though if the rain that had fallen when he had passed through it was the norm, his visits might be infrequent.

Near the Pei-ratin sat a lissom, brown-skinned woman and her father, chief and princess of the Mist, both in mourning dress. The bodies of Te Tuahangata and Prince Wiusago had been found side by side on the fields of Vulture's Craw, surrounded by the many husks of their enemies. The stern face of the chief had not been softened by news of his son's heroism, and he had refused to talk to anyone until the proper rites of passage had been performed. Leith still held hope that the conflict between Deruys and the Mist might be resolved, but any such resolution had been dealt a severe blow by the deaths of the two young men. Leith's heart ached whenever he thought of them. He missed their arguing and their passion, two men trying to make sense of the complex grievances handed them by their fathers. For such things as these the Destroyer should be required to pay.

Now the Lament of Phemanderac took hold of all those gathered in the hall. The strings slowed, and their melody settled into a haunting melancholy. Leith took the time to remember those who had given their lives in his quest. Wira, Parlevaag, the unnamed Escaignian, Sjenda of Deruys, Jethart, Shabby the Fodhram - and Hal.

One further name he would not add to the sombre list. He would not. She had not died. He would mourn for the others, but not for her.

Other names rose to the surface of his mind. The blue-robed Hermit had died a madman, but for a time had served the Company well. His Ecclesia was disbanded, and all but a few of the fire-raisers dealt with according to the City's justice: less harsh than that dealt out by the chasing mob on the night Instruere burned, but still firm. Disturbingly, Leith had heard rumours in the last few weeks of small cadres of worshippers reviving the Ecclesian fanaticism, this time under the name of Hal Mahnumsen. Something would have to be done about them.

The Presiding Elder of Escaigne had met with the fate his actions deserved, crushed under the feet of the citizens he despised. Leith felt no pity for him, but had expended much effort to integrate the surviving Escaignians into Instruian society. True-hearted Foilzie and her bald-headed friend from Escaigne devoted themselves to this cause.

No one spared a thought for their erstwhile ally, the Arkhos of Nemohaim, who even after his death continued to haunt those trying to repair the damage he had done to the great City. The Instruian Guard was subjected to intense scrutiny, and a number of recalcitrants exiled. Two men who were demonstrably involved in the killing of unarmed Ecclesians were hanged, and others accepted back into the Guard on probation. The Captain of the Instruian Guard reported some remaining animosity against what was seen as the usurping of the old Council of Faltha, and indicated he still had some work to do.

The threnody continued, a minor-key echo of the celebration, reminding those gathered there that victory and loss were inextricably entwined. Such a bittersweet moment it was, the loss of friends like the loss of limbs, but knowing that at least some remained alive to feel the loss. Joy and sorrow wounded and healed them all at once, as the music enfolded them like the consoling arms of a friend.

The strings and the trumpets united in a final extended fanfare, and the Raving King of Deruys stepped forward, mounting the marble stairs with a golden crown in his hands. Silent for once, and with tears streaking both cheeks, he stood beside the throne and waited for the final consummation of lament and celebration when, as agreed by the Sixteen Kingdoms, he would crown Leith the first King of Faltha.

The notes rang out, the Raving King lowered the crown - and just before the glittering assemblage of gold and jewels settled on Leith's head a shaft of light appeared in the middle of the aisle below, catching his eye. The light came from the place where the double wooden doors had just been opened; where, as the music reached its final crescendo, a small figure limped into the vast hall, a walking-stick in one hand.

'Two rotting salmon and five stale loaves, of bread,' said the grass-stained man nervously in the tongue of Andratan. 'The villagers would not part with more. It has been a hard summer, my lord, and the harvest will be poor.'

The ravaged face looked up from the filthy cot. 'Feed me,' said the mouth.

The voice could not be disobeyed. The servant ripped a hunk of bread from the end of a loaf, placed it in his own mouth and chewed vigorously, then spat it out and fed it to the hideous man. At least water was in plentiful supply. It was a wet autumn, certainly by Bhrudwan standards, and they continued to drink their fill at the nearest stream even after Lord Uchtana had died from the gripes. Water followed bread, nervous fingers holding the cup for the one who could not, and eventually the tortured face signalled satisfaction and sank back into its torpor.

Five months of continual hiding, of begging for bread, of rejection by the people he aspired to conquer, had turned the Lord of Bhrudwo into a spitting, whining animal. These days he had little to say that could be considered intelligible. The loss of a large part of his former power had robbed him of the personable facade he had formerly employed when it suited him: his anger was capricious and spiteful, and his attendants kept him hidden whenever they were forced to have dealings with the locals of whatever land they were currently passing through.

Although the Destroyer had folded in on himself, noticing little beyond his limited reach, his retinue remained faithful. Such as they were. Seven Lords of Fear and four servants - including the tongueless eunuch - accompanied Stella and the Undying Man on their agonising journey eastwards through the heart of Faltha.

For the first few weeks of his journey the Lord of Bhrudwo seemed largely unchanged, outwardly at least, apart from his handless arms, of course. His power had diminished somewhat, they were all aware of that, but his continued command of magic was attested to by the compulsion that sat heavily on their shoulders. This compulsion roused them from their beds late on the night after everything went wrong in Instruere, had closed their mouths but made it clear what was expected of them, had cloaked them in invisibility and enabled them to flee from the safety of their own camp. None of his servants, save the Falthan girl, who would not say, understood why their master had suddenly abandoned their camp, and the two who had asked had paid for their temerity with their lives.

For many days they hustled north-eastwards across the wheatfields of Deuverre, stealing and coercing food from those around them, leaving a trail of misery and death in their wake. Then their lord faltered, and only Stella guessed he had drained dry his reservoir of magical power.

His face grew older and more haggard by the hour, just as it had done when almost overmatched by Hal in the single combat; in the course of one afternoon he became a walking cadaver, parchment-thin skin stretched over ancient bones, but pulling away from his pain-encircled eyes.

He could not spare any energy to maintain his bodily illusion, but he still exercised enough power to hold his servants in thrall. For a wild moment Stella had thought her chance had come, that his vigilance might fail and that she and the eunuch might escape, but the tie between herself and the dreadful figure remained intact, though she could feel the strain. Or, more correctly, she could feel the link between them draining her strength, as though he drank from the well of her spirit.

They struggled eastwards for four more months. At Barathea they crossed the deep blue Branca, of all Falthan rivers the largest save the Aleinus, then struck out across the pathless plains for the town of Bis, which liked to claim it was part of none of the Sixteen Kingdoms, but in fact lay on the border of Asgowan and Favony. That they eventually made it to Bis with the loss of only two Lords of Fear and one servant was due more to good fortune than to their own survival skills. Food was scarce out on the pampas, where trees would not grow and the ferocious west wind would come sweeping down from the Remparer Mountains a hundred leagues to the east. The Bhrudwans lived on horse-meat and wild vegetable roots from Barathea all the way to Ehrenmal, where they finally found a family who took pity on them. After disposing of their bodies in the Aleinus, they crossed the great river by boat and made their way east on the southern shore.

And now they huddled, hungry and drained, in their one remaining tent and gazed eastward at the towering Aleinus Gates. Wreathed in stormclouds, the huge cliffs seemed to lean towards them like a warning carved in rock. Below the cliffs stood something equally forbidding: a contingent of armoured men in Instruian livery. Naturally they would be here, thought Stella.

Let the Destroyer find his way across the vast plains of central Faltha, waste no time looking for him there, but wait at the entrance to Vulture's Craw, where all eastward travellers were bound to come eventually.

'Go . .. and count them,' the Undying Man rasped, saliva running down his chin. 'Find a way .

. . past them.' His Lords of Fear bowed, then left the tent.

Ah, Stella,' he said fondly when they had gone. 'What would I... do without you?' She said nothing in response, she never did, but as always he could read her. 'You ... think I am horrible. And so I am! But I have... been this way before. The cursed Arrow . . . affected me this way the first time.' He cleared his throat, then was taken by a fit of coughing that subsided only when it seemed something inside him was about to break. Again Stella felt the pull on her soul. 'Back then ... I had no one to help me. Now ... I have you.' He smiled, a skull-grin that made her sick to her stomach at the same time as it raised a strange pity in her breast.