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Authors: R. Scott Bakker

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BOOK: The Warrior Prophet
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Far from Asgilioch, in the centremost chamber of his great tent, Eleäzaras, Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires, reclined in his chair, the one luxury he’d allowed himself for this mad journey. Beneath him, his body slaves washed his feet in steaming water. Three tripods illuminated the surrounding gloom. Smoke curled through the interior, casting shadows that resembled water-stained script along the bellied canvas.
The journey hadn’t been as hard as he’d feared—thus far. Nevertheless, evenings such as this always seemed to occasion an almost shameful relief. At first he’d thought it was his age: more than twenty years had passed since his last journey abroad. Weary bones, he would think, watching his people labouring in evening light hoisting tent and pavilion to the very horizon. Weary old bones.
But when he recalled those years spent hiking from mission to mission, city to city, he realized that what he suffered now had nothing to do with weariness. He could remember lying beside his fire beneath the stars, no grand pavilion overhead, no silk pillows kissing his cheek, only hard ground and the humming exhaustion that comes when a traveller falls completely still.
That
had been weariness. But this? Borne on litters, surrounded by dozens of bare-chested slaves …
The relief he experienced every evening, he realized, had nothing to do with fatigue, and everything to do with standing still …
Which was to say, with Shimeh.
Great decisions, he reflected, were measured by their finality as much as by their consequences. Sometimes he could feel it like a palpable thing: the path not taken, that fork in history where the Scarlet Spires repudiated Maithanet’s outrageous offer and watched the Holy War from afar. It didn’t exist and yet it lingered, the way a night of passion might linger in the entreating look of a slave. He saw it everywhere: in nervous silences, in exchanged glances, in Iyokus’s unrelenting cynicism, in General Setpanares’s scowl. And it seemed to mock him with promise—just as the path he now walked mocked him with threat.
To join a Holy War! Eleäzaras dealt in unrealities; it was his trade. But the unreality of this, the Scarlet Spires
here,
was well nigh indigestible. The thought of it spawned ironies, not the ironies that cultured men—the Ainoni in particular—savoured, but rather the ironies that reproduced themselves endlessly, that reduced all determination to shaking indecision.
Add to this the accumulation of complications: the House Ikurei plotting with the heathen; the Mandate playing some arcane Gnostic game every single Spires agent in Sumna uncovered and executed—even though they seemed secure enough
before
the Scarlet Spires set foot in the Empire. Even Maithanet, the Great Shriah of the Thousand Temples, worked some dark angle.
Small wonder Shimeh oppressed him. Small wonder each night seemed a respite.
Eleäzaras sighed as Myaza, his new favourite, kneaded his right foot with warmed oil.
No matter,
he told himself.
Regret is the opiate of fools.
He leaned his head back, watched the girl work through his eyelashes. “Myaza,” he said softly, grinning at her modest smile.
“Mmmyassssaaa …”
“Hanamanu Eleäzarassss,”
she sighed in turn—daring wench! The other slaves gasped in shock, then broke into giggles.
Such a bad girl!
Eleäzaras thought. He leaned forward to scoop her into his arms. But the sight of a black-gowned Usher kneeling on the carpets halted him.
Someone wished to see him—obviously. Probably General Setpanares with more complaints about the host’s sloth—which were really complaints about the Scarlet Spires’ sloth. So the Ainoni would be the last to reach Asgilioch. What did it matter? Let them wait.
“What is it?” he snapped.
The young man raised his face. “A petitioner has come, Grandmaster.”
“At this hour? Who?”
The Usher hesitated. “A magi of the Mysunsai School, Grandmaster. One Skalateas.”
Mysunsai? Whores—all of them. “What does he want?” Eleäzaras asked.
Something churned in his gut. More complications.
“He wouldn’t say specifically,” the Usher replied. “He says only that he’s ridden hard from Momemn to speak with you on a matter of great urgency.”
“Panderer,” Eleäzaras spat. “Whore. Delay him momentarily, then send him in.”
After the man withdrew, Eleäzaras had his body slaves dry his feet and bind his sandals. He then dismissed them. As the last slave hastened out, the man called Skalateas was escorted in by two armoured Javreh.
“Leave us,” Eleäzaras said to the warrior-slaves. They bowed low, then also withdrew.
From his seat, he studied the mercenary, who was clean shaven in the Nansur fashion, dressed in the humble garments of a traveller: leggings, a plain brown smock, and leather sandals. He seemed to tremble, as well he should. He stood before no less than the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires.
“This is most impertinent, my mercenary brother,” Eleäzaras said. “There are channels for this kind of transaction.”
“Begging your pardon, Grandmaster, but there are no channels for what I have to … to trade.” In a rush he added, “I’m-I’m a White-Sash Peralogue of the Mysunsai Order, Grandmaster, contracted to the Imperial Family as an Auditor. The Emperor uses me, from time to time, to confirm certain determinations made by his Imperial Saik …”
Eleäzaras digested this, decided to be accommodating. “Continue.”
“Sh-should we, ah … ah …”
“Should we what?”
“Should we discuss the fee?”
A caste-menial, of course—suthenti. No appreciation of the game. But jnan, as the Ainoni were fond of saying, brooked no consent. If one man played, everyone played.
Rather than reply, Eleäzaras studied his long, painted nails, polished them absently against his breast. He looked up as though caught in a small indiscretion, then studied the fool like one burdened by determinations of life and death.
The conjunction of silence and scrutiny nearly undid the man. He clasped his shaking hands before him.
“F-forgive m-my eagerness, Grandmaster,” Skalateas stammered, falling to his knees. “So often are knowledge and greed … spurs to each other.”
Well done. The man was not utterly devoid of wit.
“Spurs indeed,” Eleäzaras said. “But perhaps you should let
me
decide which rides which.”
“Of course, Grandmaster … But …”
“But nothing, whore.
Out
with it.”
“Of course, Grandmaster,” he said again. “It’s the Fanim sorcerer-priests—the Cishaurim … Th-they have a new kind of
spy
.”
The dramatics were forgotten. Eleäzaras leaned forward.
“Tell me more.”
“F-forgive me, Grandmaster,” the man blurted. “B-but I would be paid before speaking any further!”
A fool after all. Time was ever the scholar’s most precious commodity. Whore or not, the man should have known that. Eleäzaras sighed, then spoke the first impossible word. His mouth and eyes burned as bright as phosphor.
“No!”
Skalateas cried. “Please! I’ll speak! There’s no need …”
Eleäzaras paused, though his arcane muttering continued to echo, as though thrown by walls not found in this world. The silence, when it did come, felt absolute.
“On-on the eve b-before the Holy War marched from Momemn,” the man began, “I was summoned to the Catacombs to observe what was supposed to be, they said, the interrogation of a spy. Apparently the Emperor’s Prime Counsel—”
“Skeaös?” Eleäzaras exclaimed. “A
spy?
”
The Mysunsai hesitated, licked his lips. “Not Skeaös … Someone masquerading as him. Or something …”
Eleäzaras nodded. “You have my attention, Skalateas.”
“The Emperor himself was present at the interrogation. He demanded, quite stridently, that I contradict the findings of the Saik, that I tell him sorcery was involved … The Prime Counsel was—as you know—an old man, and yet he’d apparently killed or maimed several members of the Eothic Guard during his arrest—with his
bare hands,
they said. The Emperor was, well … overwrought.”
“So what did you see, Auditor? Did you see the Mark?”
“No. Nothing. He was unbruised. There was no sorcery whatsoever involved. But when I said as much to the Emperor, he accused me of conspiring with the Saik to overthrow him. Then the Mandate Schoolman arrived—escorted by Ikurei Conphas no—”
“Mandate Schoolman?” Eleäzaras said. “You mean Drusas Achamian?”
Skalateas swallowed. “You know him? We Mysunsai no longer bother with the Mandate. Does your Eminence maint—”
“Do you wish to sell knowledge, Skalateas, or trade it?”
The Mysunsai smiled nervously. “Sell it, of course.”
“So then what happened next?”
“The Mandati confirmed my determination, and the Emperor accused him of lying as well. As I said, the Emperor was … was …”
“Overwrought.”
“Yes. Even more so at this point. But the Mandati, Achamian, also seemed agitated. They argued—”
“Argued?” For some reason that didn’t surprise Eleäzaras. “About what?”
The Mysunsai shook his head. “I can’t remember. Something about fear, I think. Then the Prime Counsel began
speaking
to the Mandati—in some language I’ve never heard. He recognized him.”
“Recognized? Are you sure?”
“Utterly … Skeaös, or whatever it was, recognized Drusas Achamian. Then he—
it
—began shaking. We just stood gaping. Then it wrenched its chains from the wall … Freed itself!”
“Did Drusas Achamian assist him?”
“No. He was as horrified as the rest of us—if not more so. In the uproar, it killed two or three men—I’ve never seen anything move so fast! That was when the Saik intervened, burned him … Now that I think about it, burned him over the Mandati’s objections. The man was wroth.”
“Achamian tried to intercede?”
“To the point of sheltering the Prime Counsel with his own body.”
“You’re certain about that?”
“Absolutely. I’ll never forget because that was when the Prime Counsel’s face … That was when his face …
unpeeled
.”
“Unpeeled …”
“Or unfolded … Its face just … just opened, like
fingers
but … I know of no other way to describe it.”
“Like fingers?”
This can’t be! He lies!
“You doubt me. You mustn’t, your Eminence! This spy was a double, a mimic
without the Mark!
And that means he must be an artifact of the Psûkhe. The
Cishaurim
. It means they have spies
you cannot see
.”
Numbness spilled like water from Eleäzaras’s chest to his limbs.
I’ve wagered my School
.
“But their Art is too crude …”
Skalateas looked curiously heartened. “Nevertheless, it’s the only explanation. They’ve found some way of creating
perfect
spies … Think! How long have they owned the Emperor’s ear? The
Emperor!
Who knows how many …” He paused, apparently wary of speaking too close to the heart of the matter. “But this is why I rode so hard to find you. To warn you.”
Eleäzaras’s mouth had become very dry. He tried to swallow. “You must stay with us, of course, so that we can … interview you, further.”
The man’s face had become the very picture of dread. “I’m af-afraid that won’t be possible, y-your Eminence. I’m expected back at the Imperial Court.”
Eleäzaras clasped his hands to conceal the tremors. “You work for the Scarlet Spires, now, Skalateas. Your contract with House Ikurei is dissolved.”
“Ah, y-your Eminence, as much as I abase myself before your glory and power—I am your slave!—I fear that Mysunsai contracts cannot be dissolved by fiat. N-not even yours. S-so if I c-could coll-collect my-my …”
“Ah yes, your fee.” Eleäzaras stared hard at the Mysunsai, smiled with deceptive mildness. Poor fool. To think he’d
underestimated
the value of his information. This was worth far more than gold. Far more.
The Mysunsai’s face had gone blank. “I suppose I could delay my departure.”
“You sup—”
At that point, Eleäzaras almost died. The man had started his Cant the instant of Eleäzaras’s reply, purchasing a heartbeat’s advantage—almost enough.
Lightning cut the air, skipped and thundered across the Grandmaster’s reflexive Wards. Momentarily blinded, Eleäzaras tipped back in his chair and tumbled across the carpeted ground. He was singing before he found his knees.
The air danced with hammering lights. Flurries of burning sparrows …
The fool cried out, sputtered as best he could, trying to reinforce his Wards. But for Hanumanu Eleäzaras, the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires, he was little more than a child’s riddle, easily solved. Bird after fiery bird swept into him. Immolation after immolation, battering his Wards to ruin. Then chains flashed from corners of empty air, piercing limbs and shoulders, crossing as though looped between a child’s fingers, until the man hung suspended. Threaded.
BOOK: The Warrior Prophet
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