The Usurper's Crown (47 page)

Vaceta did not have anything like the imperial budget for gilding their god house, but they had made up for it by employing the best of their woodworkers to carve the interior into a haven of bounty. The supporting pillars were trees laden with apples and pears. The arched roof held friezes of all manner of artisans at their trades. The walls showed reliefs of farmers reaping and gathering in plentiful fields, accompanied by fat-cheeked children lifting sheaves of grain or baskets of vegetables to the sky.

Cezta, the god of the city, stood on his pillar, a fresh, green branch in one hand and the other raised in blessing. Supposedly, he had gained his divinity during a famine by going out into a field and feeding his own blood to the soil. The next day, the grain waved fresh and green in the summer sun, and Cezta was gone.

But it was not of Cezta that Peshek had come to beg aid. Once every ten days or so while the court was in its summer home, the keeper of the emperor’s god house would come to Cezta’s god house, to call on the keeper and extend the courtesies and the blessings of Vyshko and Vyshemir. Peshek had been hanging about the doorways and marketplaces for days waiting to overhear when the visit might be expected. Now that the day had finally arrived, all that was left was to wait and see if Keeper Bakhar had managed to survive at his post.

Peshek forced himself to exercise again the patience he had spent the recent days practicing. Since leaving his father’s house, he had traveled on foot, mostly at night, pausing here and there to work a day in a field or barn for a meal or a night’s lodging, so that he might be taken for nothing but an unattached laborer, no one to rouse suspicion, or even comment, except from maids, and, not infrequently, matrons with good eyes and lively minds.

He had tried to plan for what to do if Bakhar was no longer the keeper, but his mind could not seemed to address the problem. He could only wonder what could have been done to the keeper, and what the keeper would have said before Kacha’s people were finished with him.

The doors to the god house opened again. Peshek let his eyes flicker up from their reverent attitude, and his heart leapt. Bakhar strode into the dim house, accompanied by the men who bore the titles of Right Hand and Left Hand. All three were dressed in the simple, belted blue robes Bakhar favored for non-ceremonial occasions. Bakhar’s only adornments were the small gold symbols on his belt’s end: a cup, a knife and a pike.

Peshek pushed past a knot of worshipers, hurrying toward the central aisle. Bakhar walked forward toward Cezta to pay his respects. The local keeper came out of the back, and opened his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. Bakhar lifted his hand in return. Peshek hurried forward, and collided straight into the Left Hand, who in turn collided with Bakhar.

“Clumsy …!” began the Left Hand, but a glance from the keeper checked his exclamation.

“I’m so sorry!” gasped Peshek, stepping back just a little and folding his hands to reverence to the keeper. “Forgive me, sir, please …”

“That’s perfectly all right …” began Bakhar. Peshek lifted his head and met the keeper’s eyes. Recognition and surprise flickered swiftly across the other man’s visage. “… my son,” Bakhar went on, smoothing down his robe. “No harm.”

Reverencing humbly, and keeping his head ducked lest the Left Hand and Right Hand should chance to recognize him, Peshek retreated down the aisle and out the doors. The summer sun was painfully bright after spending the better part of a day inside the dim god house, but the fresh breeze was more than welcome.

Fortunately, there were not many loiterers around the god house steps to notice him cross the street and settle himself into the shadowy niche between two houses across the way. This time, though, he found it hard to make himself wait. The man he needed was but a couple of dozen feet away, separated by from him by a few wooden walls. The keeper had seen him. If he couldn’t get back in there quietly, his best chance at good information would shortly be beyond his reach, again, and there would be nothing for it but more delay and yet more waiting in shadows. Peshek’s palms began to itch with impatience.

At last, a small troop of men with muddy boots and undyed kaftans strode up the street and turned toward the god house. Peshek ducked out of his hiding place and joined their number, affording himself an anonymous entry back into the holy place after his rather public exit.

Peshek queued up with the farmers to kiss the hem of the god’s robe, as was proper. As he put his lips to the bright green fabric, he glanced toward the back of the house. There stood Bakhar in quiet conference with the local keeper, a far slighter man with a mournful face and stubby hands.

But did Bakhar see him? Peshek bit his lip and stepped sideways to make way for the other worshipers. After a bad moment wondering what to do, he dropped to one knee toward Cezta’s image and bowed his head, making himself the picture of a poor man with many cares, praying for succor from this most prosperous god, and at the same time, putting himself directly in Keeper Bakhar’s line of sight.

The move had its intended effect. After only a few heartbeats, a hand touched his shoulder, and Peshek looked up to see Bakhar standing over him.

“I see your heart is heavy, my son,” Bakhar said. “Would you care to come and talk a little? Perhaps together we can understand how Cezta, under the hands of Vyshko and Vyshemir, touches your life.”

“Thank you, good keeper,” said Peshek, keeping his voice low and his face solemn.

“Come with me.”

Peshek rose and followed Bakhar into the niche that each god house in Isavalta kept for Vyshko and Vyshemir. Their representations were carved into an alcove above a curving shelf meant for offerings. Two low stools had been placed there to accommodate any who needed to stay and meditate for a long period.

Bakhar kissed his fingers and laid them on the carved folds of the gods’ robes, and then reverenced. Peshek did the same. As he did, he stole a quick glance at the keeper. The man had aged since Peshek had last seen him. Tired lines ran down his cheeks and his normally serene eyes had grown uneasy.

“You take a chance being here,” whispered Bakhar as Peshek straightened up. “But I am glad beyond words to see you. Tell me quickly, how fares the empress?”

“I wish I could tell you,” muttered Peshek, his gaze darting around the niche and the greater house, just to make sure no one had strayed too near. “She has fled to the Heart of the World, and, as much as it pains me, I have other orders. I can tell you she has help on the way. Avanasy has returned.”

Bakhar closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “I had not dared to hope, but I could not believe he would stay away at such a time.”

“Avanasy says that Lord Iakush gave his life to warn him as to what was happening.” Peshek rubbed his hands together.

This time, Bakhar’s sigh was heavy. “I wondered. It’s been given out that the lord sorcerer died of a hemorrhage in his spleen. No one will speculate though on what might have caused that hemorrhage, and his body was not allowed to lie in state before burial.” Bakhar’s hand strayed to the golden icons on his belt. “You’ve heard what happened at the games for the Hastinapuran ambassador?”

Peshek sat himself on one of the padded stools, scrubbing his scalp and face. “I’ve heard something dramatic happened, but the rumors in the streets have doubtlessly improved greatly on reality.”

Peshek listened grimly while Bakhar told him of the arrival of the lone, tattered soldier right in the middle of the martial display, and his declaration of Hung Tse’s treachery.

“Is what this man said true?” he asked when the keeper’s soft voice fell silent.

Bakhar shook his head. “I have not been able to learn for certain, but I doubt it.” His whole face hardened. “Kacha has already orchestrated far more difficult displays.”

“And where stand the council? Do they all accept Kacha’s story of early confinement and an impending heir?”

“To a man. Kacha has done something to them. I smell magics here, but I cannot find the source. Kacha is no sorcerer himself, nor did he bring one from Hastinapura. He barely holds any conference with the sorcerers who remain at court, so who is aiding him and how?” Bakhar’s gaze rested on the images of Vyshko and Vyshemir for a long moment. “Avanasy might be able to tell us, but Avanasy is needed elsewhere.”

“Except that Avanasy was asking the same questions.” Peshek’s fist tightened. “So, the empress has no friend left at court?”

“None I am certain could be trusted with the truth.”

For the first time, Peshek heard the strain in the keeper’s voice, and he realized suddenly that since the empress’s flight, Bakhar had been even more alone than he himself had. He reached out and touched the other man’s arm.

“How is it you remain above suspicion?”

Bakhar’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “By pretending to be a foolish old man concerned with nothing outside my god house. Kacha is juggling so many intrigues right now, I believe he is content to let that facade stand.” Again, he looked to the gods, reaching out from their alcove, their weapons held high. “But what luck have you had?”

“My father is sounding out the lords he believes will hear the truth and keep it close to themselves. I am to meet his messenger shortly. If all goes well, we will soon have arms to back our answer to Kacha’s declarations.”

“You have brought me the first good news I’ve had in many days.” Bakhar smoothed his beard down. He looked as tired as Peshek felt.
We are not either of us meant for intrigue
, thought Peshek.
Not truly
. “I will begin to move beyond the house as much as I am able. Perhaps I can find the source of what has blinded so many shrewd men.”

“Do your best, good keeper,” said Peshek, getting to his feet. “Send what word you can to my father. If any know where to find me, he will.” Remembering his role, Peshek reverenced in the peasant fashion. “I will send your news to Avanasy. Perhaps he can puzzle this out from a distance, or at least tell us where to begin looking.”

Bakhar touched Peshek’s brow in blessing. “Vyshko walks strong beside you, my son.”

There was nothing more to be said. Head ducked, shoulders rounded, Peshek left the house for the broad, cobbled street and the summer sun. As soon as his eyes had adjusted again to the brightness, he set off down the street, heading for the city’s wooden walls and the south gates. He wound his way quickly and confidently through the crowded streets, the carts and mules, the goose-herders and the men toiling under heavy sacks.

Then, faintly, he heard a rhythmic sound that made him pause, causing a woman struggling along with a huge basket to curse and shoulder her way past him. Peshek listened. Under all the thousand sounds of the busy city, he heard it again. A steady, rhythmic tramping that could have but one source; the boots of many soldiers.

No sooner had Peshek identified the sound, than a faint, but imperious voice from a man as yet unseen called out, “Clear the way! Clear the way for the House Guard Imperial!”

Groans and cursing broke out from the crowds. Carters whipped their animals, trying to get them off to one side. All around, beasts and people jostled one another, noisy with their complaints, seeking some side street or alley that would get them away from the crush. But Peshek heard another noise as he strove to keep the pressure of the crowd from pushing him down the alley at his back. Cheers swelled up ahead, growing louder with each heartbeat, as did the sound of marching feet.

Up ahead, the street bent in a broad curve. Peshek craned his neck along with the rest to try to see who was coming. At last, a broad shadow filled the bend, and then the ranks of the House Guard marched into view.

They were decked out as brightly as for any imperial review. Gilded armor shined in the sun, as did the tips of the pikes. Blue coats were flawless. They marched in stride, rank on rank, their armor and arms jingling in metallic counterpoint.

Officers on horseback flanked the foot soldiers, and Peshek stared in dismay at faces he knew. Habat, whose nose was as crooked as an old man’s back from the number of times it had been broken. Maccek, who he’d fought with over one of the weaver girls in the sheds and gotten far too drunk with an hour afterwards when they both found out she preferred Over-Lieutenant Oal. Rzhova, who still owed him two days’ pay from their last game of dice.

Stop!
he wanted to shout at him.
Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing! Come with me! I’ll show you the enemy!

But he was alone in the cheering crowd. They’d heard the stories come down from Vaknevos, and they believed. Why shouldn’t they?

“Cut the heart right out of them!” shouted a man to Peshek’s right.

“Captain! Captain!” cried another man with a sack of charcoal on his back. “Give ‘em two for me!”

Rzhova turned his head and began to reverence genially to the crowd, and then he froze, and Peshek had a single heartbeat to realize he’d been a fool.

Here he stood, at least half a head taller than those around him, close enough to the grand parade to recognize the faces of old comrades.

Close enough to be recognized by them.

He had only enough time to turn to run before Rzhova shouted, “Peshek, you traitor!”

The press of bodies before him suddenly became a solid wall. Peshek swore and tore at shoulders and coats, shoving people sideways as far as he could. He could feel the crowd stirring behind him to try to let Rzhova ride through. He was sure he heard the rasp of a sword being drawn. Peshek slammed his shoulder against a portly man who tried to grab his arms. That broke the wall of bodies just far enough and Peshek fled down the stinking alley. In the space of another breath, hoofbeats clattered after him.

Peshek didn’t dare look back. He pelted ahead as fast as he could, but his boots skittered on the garbage that littered the cobbles. Twice he stumbled and almost fell. He slammed his shoulder against a door, seeking to find a way into one of the houses, only to find it solidly barred.

“Coward!” shouted Rzhova. “Make your stand!”

Clutching his shoulder, Peshek turned. Rzhova, tall and terrible on horseback, bore down on him, standing in the stirrups, sword held high. Peshek bit back a cry of terror and got ready to duck if he could.