The Usurper's Crown (48 page)

All at once, another harsh scream cut the air. Peshek jerked around, thinking it was another soldier. Instead, a black bird dove down, making him duck his head. Rzhova hollered and flung up his arm to protect his eyes as. the bird went straight for him, cawing fiercely.

Peshek did not wait to see what would happen next. He took off running down the alley again, praying that Vyshko really did walk strong beside him, and that he had made it hard enough for the other officers to get their horses through the crowds that there would be no one waiting for Peshek at the end of the alley. Behind him, the crow squawked angrily and Rzhova cursed, and the horse’s hooves clopped as the animal danced, but none of those sounds grew closer.

Several sacks of chaff and straw waited by the alley’s mouth. Peshek snatched a pair up as he ran past, hoisting one onto each shoulder and plunging straight for the middle of the crowd. The continuous roll of voices, the brays and snorts of animals, and the creaking of overburdened carts filled up the world and Peshek could make out no other noise. Ranked by his sacks, he could only see a narrow slice of what was ahead of him. The sacks itched his cheeks, and their must and dust tickled his nose. But he heard no shouts for him to halt, and the only clopping of hooves came from reluctant mules and flocks of sheep.

At last, Peshek spied another alley. He slowly worked his way to the edge of the crowd, tossed down his sacks and slumped momentarily against the corner of a house. From the cool and dirty smell coming up from the narrow way, this one led to the canals. Good. From there he could get his bearings again and maybe find a boatman for hire. It would be the quickest way out of the city.

While all this flashed through his mind, two sharp caws sounded overheard. A glossy black crow perched on the eves of the house Peshek leaned against. With a clatter of wings, the bird dropped onto the sack he had just discarded.

There was absolutely no doubt in Peshek’s mind that this bold creature was the same one that had saved him from Rzhova. Pushing aside all feelings of foolishness, Peshek crouched down until his head was level with the crow’s. It regarded him first with one round eye, then the other, then it cawed again.

“I owe you my thanks, Master Crow,” murmured Peshek, reaching out with one finger to stroke the shining feathers. The bird cawed again, outraged at the familiarity, and hopped backward.

“Your pardon, your pardon,” Peshek murmured, drawing his hand back at once. “And may I assume you are the messenger my friend Avanasy promised to send?”

The bird cawed once more and puffed its feathers out proudly.

“Your timing, sir, is impeccable.” Peshek rested his forearms on his knees. “You may tell our friend …”

It was only then that the enormity of what he had seen and heard engulfed him. Until this instant, he’d had no time to consider what it meant. But now he grew cold as his thoughts ordered themselves. Isavalta was going to war against Hung Tse, and the empress was in the Heart of the World. She’d be taken hostage at once and held for ransom, and Kacha would never pay such a ransom, because that would mean he would have to admit that she was not in confinement in Vaknevos after all. If she could not be ransomed … Peshek closed his eyes. Hung Tse would not waste their time on her.

“Tell him urgently that the empress must not go to the Heart of the World. Kacha has mobilized for war against Hung Tse, and she is sure to be taken hostage by the Nine Elders.”

The crow bobbed its head several times, as if to reassure Peshek that it understood. Then, it shook itself once and leapt into the sky, spreading its wings and flying off over the rooftops. Peshek watched, wishing for a long, vain moment that he could do the same.

“And if I’ve been here talking to someone’s tame crow, what a complete ass I’ll have made of myself,” he muttered as he straightened up. He pushed the thought aside at once. That was Avanasy’s messenger. He would reach the empress in time. Peshek had done his part there. He would have to trust to Avanasy’s skill to manage affairs in the Heart of the World. His whole purpose must be to raise what troops he could to stop the unlawful war that Kacha sought to start.

Resuming his soldier’s bearing for the first time in days, Peshek marched down the alleyway.

Cai Yun leapt from the sedan that had carried her to her uncle’s house with no thought to decorum. She left it to her bodyguard to pay the bearers who had brought her and instead hurried through the gate and up the garden path to the verandah. There, her two old servants bowed to her, but this once she passed them by without a word. She had news that could not wait.

Fortunately, Uncle was in his study, sitting calmly at the low table that served as his desk, working on a letter. Her abrupt and undignified entrance made him pause, the ink brush poised in mid-stroke, and look up at her with raised eyebrows.

“I have come from meeting Zhang Sung, Uncle,” said Cai Yun breathlessly, kneeling down in front of him. “You were right. He was worth every coin, and all my flirtations. He …”

Uncle raised his free hand and set down his ink brush before it could drip on his carefully written letter. “Pause for breath, beloved niece. You will be fainting on the mat before you finish this tale.”

Cai Yun did pause, and struggled to slow her breathing and regain her calm. When she was no longer panting like a horse, she bowed to Uncle, who bowed in return. Thus composed, she said, more slowly and more properly, “He tells me there is an Isavaltan prisoner in the cells below the Heart of the World.”

“An Isavaltan?” Uncle savored the word, as Cai Yun knew he would. “This is indeed interesting. Does Zhang Sung know who this Isavaltan is?”

Cai Yun limited her triumph to a flash of her eyes. “A woman. A sorceress.”

“So?” Uncle’s eyebrows lifted again. “Well, well, a sorceress, at a time when we have word that the Isavaltans are chasing a mad sorceress about the countryside for impersonating their empress. This is indeed interesting news.”

Cai Yun searched her uncle’s face, even though by now she knew well he would show her nothing he did not wish her to see. Still, the lilt in his words made her believe that this news was more than interesting. It was welcome.

Uncle moved the brush to the shallow dish of water beside the stone and grinder so that the ink would not harden and ruin the bristles. “Niece, I have a task for you.”

She was not surprised. “How can I assist my uncle?”

“I believe someone will soon be coming to retrieve this Isavaltan sorceress. I would speak with them when they do.” Uncle stood and lifted a casket down from the shelf behind him. It opened easily under his hands, although, Cai Yun knew from the painful experience of childhood, if she had tried to lift that same lid, her fingers would have smarted for a week.

From the casket, Uncle drew a silken bag, and from the bag he took an amulet of jade carved in the shape of a dragon with a fox’s head and cunning eyes.

“I suggest you go to the river docks. This amulet will help bring you and such as seek the sorceress together.” Uncle handed the precious object to Cai Yun, who took it with a bow and concealed it in her sleeve.

“I will do my best.”

“I know you will,” Uncle replied, a hint of pride in his placid voice. His eyes shone and Cai Yun felt an answering warmth run through her. “Understand this, this may be the beginning of something much greater. If we act swiftly and with good information, you and I, Niece, will strike such a blow against the Nine Elders that they will never recover.”

Chapter Fourteen

A sharp, swift pain in her stomach woke Medeoan. She cried out and rolled over, clutching her side. Light flared in the darkness and she shrank from it. Gradually, she could see the soldiers had carried in a table and chair, and the little stick of a man who had ordered her put in this cell sat before her, a fresh scroll laid out before him. Two guards flanked him. A third stood beside Medeoan, and she realized his square-toed shoe must be the source of the pain in her side. Her anger flared, but she kept her mouth shut.

“Can you understand me?” asked the stick figure official.

“Very well, thank you,” croaked Medeoan. Her throat burned, her head spun. Despite the pain from the kick, her stomach cramped up with hunger. How long had she been left here in this hole?

The official noted something down. “Stand.”

Medeoan gritted her teeth and made herself get to her feet. Her knees shook, but she remained upright. They would not see her grovel. They had already seen too much of her weakness.

“Who are you?” the official asked, without even looking up at her. His pen was busy on the scroll, but from this distance Medeoan could not make out what he wrote.

Medeoan drew herself up as straight as she could. This brief moment, at least, she was going to enjoy.

“I am the empress of Isavalta.”

She expected a blow, and steeled herself for it, but none came. The skinny official just tightened his mouth into a smirk.

“It is at least a creative lie,” he said. “Who are you?”

Let him see it
. Medeoan let her anger blaze in her eyes. She remembered standing before the throne, she remembered the coronation and the oaths of loyalty. She remembered looking out the window of Vyshtavos and seeing her lands spread out before her. “I am Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradovosh, the Empress of Eternal Isavalta, the Heir of Vyshemir, the Prince of the Northern Marches, and the Autocrat of Tuukos,” she said in her own tongue. “And you will address me properly, or the Heart of Heaven and Earth will know why.”

The skinny official blinked slowly. How much did he understand? Was she just speaking gibberish to him? Did they now believe her to be a madwoman?

Slowly, the skinny official set down his pen. He stood, and then he bowed, not deeply, but he did bow. Medeoan inclined her head in response.

“I must look into this matter,” he said, gathering up his scroll. “Stay with Her Majesty.”

He left then, and two of the guards went with him. They closed the door behind themselves, leaving Medeoan in the cell with the third guard, who positioned himself by the door and assumed an attitude of attention.

Medeoan did not bother to try to speak to him. She claimed the official’s chair. Her guard made no remark. He did not even look at her. So, she got ready to wait.

Hunger thinned Medeoan’s blood. She tried to be grateful for the light and the chair, but that did not last long. What was the skinny man doing? How could he look into this matter? She had arrived in secret, at least she hoped she had. He either believed her or he did not. If he did not, her trouble deepened. If he did, he should have her taken out of here. Immediately. She should at least be provided with food and clean clothes. Whatever else she was, she had declared herself to be an empress, and there were rules of treatment.

After an unendurably long time, the cell door swung open again. Medeoan started at the sudden, silent movement, but forced herself to remain seated and simply look up.

As expected, the skinny official stepped back into the cell. This time, in addition to the soldiers, he was accompanied by a second, taller man in a long scarlet coat. His black hair was rolled into a bun rather than hanging down as a braid. A serpentine green dragon had been tattooed onto his right cheek. The loops and twists of its body probably wove some permanent protection or silence into his being.

A sorcerer then, probably of the outer court, or he also would have been wearing a cap to match his coat, and would have had more than one visible tattoo.

“You are the one who claims to be the empress of Isavalta?” he said in the language of Medeoan’s home.

“I claim nothing,” replied Medeoan. “I speak the truth.”

He blinked. “You will, however, agree it is a truth that must be verified.”

“That depends entirely on the means of verification.”

The sorcerer stepped forward and held out his hand. His palm had also been tattooed, this time with a brown snake twisting itself into a pattern that, Medeoan was sure, matched that of the dragon on his face.

“You will take my hand.”

Medeoan hesitated. Avanasy had required her to become familiar with the common symbols and patterns of magic in Hung Tse and Hastinapura. The snake was wisdom, but it was also cleverness, and truthfulness. She had no protection about her. What could he compel her to say?

Still, she had little choice. Medeoan lifted her chained wrists. She grasped the sorcerer’s hand, and found it cold and calloused from his workings. With his free hand, the sorcerer raised her chin so that he could look into her eyes. Medeoan bit back the rebuke that rose at this familiarity.

The sorcerer began to chant. It was a high, tonal language, like the tongue she knew, but not the same. Some ancient dialect or some sorcerer’s secret, she did not know. All she knew was she felt the cold prickling of a spell being worked. It traveled down her skin from her scalp and reached inside her, through flesh to her veins and her blood and crawled along her bones. She felt the sorcerer draw toward her, although her outward senses told her neither he nor she had moved.

Who are you?
he asked, although she heard no words.
Who are you?

Unbidden, a hundred images rose in Medeoan’s mind. Her mother holding her hand and telling her a great prince never cries, looking up and up the high dais to where her father sat, a god enthroned in gold, her parents dead under their shrouds, looking into Kacha’s eyes on her wedding day, looking into Avanasy’s eyes as she banished him from her land. Too many, too fast, the images tumbled over each other: Kacha in her arms, her coronation, her parents in their grave, Kacha in her bed, Avanasy staring at her, his whole face full of betrayal …

“Enough!” shouted Medeoan. With all the strength she had left, she tore free of the sorcerer’s grip. The prickling faded instantly, but Medeoan was seized with an icy trembling that she could not control.

The sorcerer too was shaking, and Medeoan was secretly glad she had been able to cause him some discomfort as repayment for what he had just done to her. It was a long moment before he was able to harden his face and regain control. None of the other men said a word. Medeoan could not even hear them breathe.