The Thousandfold Thought Part 15

So what was this thing? He had struck bargains with it. Exchanged promises.

"You speak to me of killing," Cnaiur said evenly, "when the Dunyain's death should be your only concern."

The little face scowled. "The Ikurei plots the Holy War's destruction."

Cnaiur spat, turned to the plate of the Meneanor, to the great finger of moonlight that divided its black back. "And the Dunyain?"

"We need him to find the other ... Moenghus. He's the greater threat."

"Fool!" Cnaiur exclaimed.

"I eclipse you, mortal!" it replied with bird-vehemence. "I am a son of a more violent race. You cannot conceive the compa.s.s of my life!"

Cnaiur turned his profile to it, glanced at it sidelong. "Why? The blood that pulses through my veins is no less ancient. Nor are the movements of my soul. You are not so old as the Truth."

He could fairly hear the creature's sneer.

"You still do not understand them," Cnaiur continued. "Before all, the Dunyain are intellect intellect. I do not know their ends, but I do know this: they make instruments of all things, all things, and they do so with a way beyond the ken of me or even you, Demon." and they do so with a way beyond the ken of me or even you, Demon."

"You think I underestimate them."

Cnaiur turned his back to the sea. "It is inevitable," he said, shrugging. "We are little more than children to them, imbeciles drawn from the womb. Think on it, Bird. Moenghus has dwelt among the Kianene for thirty years. I know not your power, but I do know this: he lies far beyond it."

Moenghus ... Simply speaking the name cramped his heart.

"As you say, Scylvendi, you know not my power."

Cnaiur cursed and laughed. "Would you like to know what a Dunyain would hear in your words?"

"And what might that be?"

"Posturing. Vanity. Weaknesses that betray your measure and offer innumerable lines of a.s.sault. A Dunyain would grant you your declarations. He would encourage you in your confidence. In all things, he would dispense flattering appearances. He would care nothing whether you thought him your lesser, your slave, so long as you remained ignorant."

For a moment the abomination simply stared, as though implications could only file singly through its apple-sized skull. Its face screwed into a miniature simulacrum of contempt. "Ignorant? Ignorant of what?"

Cnaiur spat. "Your true circ.u.mstances."

"And what are my true circ.u.mstances, Scylvendi?"

"That you are being played. That you flounder in nets of your own making. The circ.u.mstances you struggle to master, Bird, have long ago mastered you. Of course you think otherwise. Like men, power stands high among your native desires. But you are a tool, as much as any Man of the Tusk."

It crooked its head to the side. "How, then, am I to become my own instrument?"

Cnaiur snorted. "For centuries you have manipulated events from the dark, or so you claim. Now you a.s.sume that you must do the same, that nothing has changed. I a.s.sure you, everything everything has changed. You think yourself hidden, but you are not. Chances are he already knows you have approached me. Chances are he already knows your ends and your resources." has changed. You think yourself hidden, but you are not. Chances are he already knows you have approached me. Chances are he already knows your ends and your resources."

Even the ancient things, Cnaiur realized, would suffer the Holy War's fate. The Dunyain would strip them the way the People stripped the carca.s.ses of bison. Flesh for sustenance. Fat for soap and fuel. Bone for implements. Hide for shelter and shields. No matter how deep they ran, the ages themselves would be consumed. The Dunyain was something new. Perpetually new.

Like l.u.s.t or hunger.

"You must abandon your old ways, Bird. You must strike across trackless ground. You must surrender brute circ.u.mstance to him, him, because in this you cannot hope to match him. Instead, you must watch. Wait. You must become a student of opportunity." because in this you cannot hope to match him. Instead, you must watch. Wait. You must become a student of opportunity."

"Opportunity ... for what?"

Cnaiur held out a scarred fist. "To kill him! To kill Anasurimbor Kellhus while you still can!"

"He is naught but a trifle," the bird crowed. "So long as he leads the Holy War to Shimeh, he works our will."

"Fool!" Cnaiur cackled.

The bird held forth its wings in wrath. "Do you not know who I am?" "Do you not know who I am?"

The pools about Cnaiur's feet flared bright with images: of Sranc loping through fire-gilded streets, of Dragons climbing tormented skies, of human heads smoking about bronze rings, and of a high-winged monstrosity ... Blazing eyes and translucent flesh.

"Behold!"

But Cnaiur held his Trinket fast in his fist. He was not cowed. "Sorcery?" he laughed. "You merely toss shanks to the wolves of my argument. Even as we speak, he learns sorcery he learns sorcery!"

The light vanished and only the bird remained, its human head white in the moonlight.

"The Mandate Schoolman," Cnaiur said in explanation. "He teaches him-"

"It will take him years, you fool ..."

Cnaiur spat, managed to shake his head ruefully despite the mad disproportion between the thing before him and the aura of its might. Pity for the powerful-did that not make one great?

"You forget, Bird. He learned my people's tongue in four days."

Kneeling naked in his apartments, he neither moved nor started at the sound of approaching footsteps. He was Ikurei Conphas I. And though he had no choice but to continue this obscene pantomime with the Scylvendi-surprise was ever the grist of victory-his subordinates were a different matter altogether. At long last the days of censoring his words and rationing his actions were over. His uncle's spies were now his his spies, and he knew quite well the length and beam of his own sedition. spies, and he knew quite well the length and beam of his own sedition.

"The Saik Grandmaster has arrived," Sompas said from the darkness behind him.

"Just Cememketri?" Conphas replied. "No one else?"

"Your instructions were explicit, G.o.d-of-Men."

The Emperor smiled. "Wait with him. I come shortly."

Never had he been so desperate for information. The anxiousness was so acute that he had no choice but to master it. The hunger that whined the loudest should always be the last fed. One must have discipline about the Imperial Table.

He barked into the gloom after the General had departed. A naked Kianene girl crept forward, her eyes wide in terror. Conphas patted the rug before him, watched impa.s.sively as she a.s.sumed the position-knees spread, shoulders down, peach raised-before him. Hiking his kilt, he knelt between her orange legs. He need only strike her once before she learned to hold the mirror steady. But as he began to minister to her, another far better idea came upon him. He bid her hold the mirror before his his face, so that her own reflection stared down upon her. face, so that her own reflection stared down upon her.

"Watch yourself," he cooed. "Watch, and the pleasure will come ... I swear it."

For some reason the cold press of silver against his cheek fanned his ardour. They climaxed together, despite her shame. It made her seem more than the animal he knew her to be.

He would make, he decided, a far different Emperor from his uncle.

Seven days had pa.s.sed since his meeting with Fanayal, and still the point had not taken. Conphas was not one to fret over omens-he had watched his fool uncle twist from that wire for far too long-but he could not help but mourn the circ.u.mstance circ.u.mstance of his invest.i.ture. To rise to the Mantle of the Nansurium while prisoner of a Scylvendi-a of his invest.i.ture. To rise to the Mantle of the Nansurium while prisoner of a Scylvendi-a Scylvendi Scylvendi! And to learn of it from a Kianene-from the Padirajah, Padirajah, no less! Though the humiliation meant nothing to him, it was an irony too sharp not to smack of the G.o.ds. What if his candle had burned to the stub? What if they did begrudge their brothers? no less! Though the humiliation meant nothing to him, it was an irony too sharp not to smack of the G.o.ds. What if his candle had burned to the stub? What if they did begrudge their brothers?

The timing was all wrong.

Momemn was almost certainly in an uproar. According to Fanayal's sources, Ngarau, his uncle's Grand Seneschal, had taken matters in hand, hoping to secure Conphas's favour upon his return. Fanayal had insisted that his succession was secure-that no one either on or off the Andiamine Heights would dare foment against the great Lion of Kiyuth. And though Conphas's vanity a.s.sured him this was true, he could not overlook the fact that this was precisely what the newly anointed Padirajah needed needed him to believe. Though the Holy War lay far from Nenciphon and the White-Sun Palace, Kian stood upon the brink of an abyss. And if Conphas rushed to Momemn to secure his claim, Fanayal would be doomed. him to believe. Though the Holy War lay far from Nenciphon and the White-Sun Palace, Kian stood upon the brink of an abyss. And if Conphas rushed to Momemn to secure his claim, Fanayal would be doomed.

What Son of the Salt would not say anything to save his nation?

Two things had convinced him to remain in Joktha and continue this farce with the Scylvendi: the prospect of crossing Khemema once again, and the fact that, according to Fanayal, it had been his grandmother grandmother who had killed Xerius. As mad as the notion seemed, and as much as Fanayal's protestations had provoked his suspicion, he somehow knew that this simply had to be what had happened. Years before, she had killed her husband to install her beloved son. And now she had killed her son to install her beloved grandson ... who had killed Xerius. As mad as the notion seemed, and as much as Fanayal's protestations had provoked his suspicion, he somehow knew that this simply had to be what had happened. Years before, she had killed her husband to install her beloved son. And now she had killed her son to install her beloved grandson ...

And, perhaps more importantly, to bring him home to bring him home.

From the beginning, Istriya had balked at the notion of betraying the Holy War. Conphas had forgiven her this, knowing that the old have eyes keen for encroaching shadows. What dusk does not bring thoughts of dawn? It was the intensity of her aversion that worried him. Claws such as hers did not grow brittle with age, as his uncle had apparently discovered.

The murder was entirely consistent with her character, of course. Canine avarice was ever the hook from which all her motives hung. She had a.s.sa.s.sinated Xerius, not for the sake of the Holy War, but for the sake of her precious soul soul. Conphas found himself snorting in derision whenever the thought struck him. One might sooner wash s.h.i.t from s.h.i.t than cleanse a soul so wicked!

But in the absence of facts to fix them, these thoughts and worries could do naught but cycle round and round, quickened by the mad stakes and the perverse unreality of it all. I'm Emperor, I'm Emperor, he would think. he would think. Emperor! Emperor! But as things stood, he was a prisoner of his ignorance-far more so than of the Scylvendi. And with his Saik Caller, Darastius, dead, there was nothing to be done about it. Save wait. But as things stood, he was a prisoner of his ignorance-far more so than of the Scylvendi. And with his Saik Caller, Darastius, dead, there was nothing to be done about it. Save wait.

He found the old man prostrate on the floor beneath the impromptu dais and chair Sompas had arranged for him. The Scylvendi had installed him and his officers in a burnt-brick manse near the centre of Joktha-an old Nansur exchange house, as luck would have it-and though technically he was free to wander where he might, a watch had been set on all the building's entrances. Fortunately for them, the Conriyans were a civilized people, sharing a civilized appreciation for bribes.

Conphas took his place on the dais, stared across what had once been a moneychanger's floor. In the gloom, bland mosaics wandered across the walls, conjuring a peculiar sense of home. An acrid edge of smoke plagued his every breath; thanks to the Scylvendi, they had been reduced to burning furnishings. Sompas stood discreetly in the same outer gloom as the slaves. Between four glowering braziers, the man lay face-first on a gold and purple prayer mat-pillaged from some tabernacle, Conphas supposed. Despite the thousand questions that raced through his soul, he gazed at him in silence for a long moment, noted the shine of his pate through strings of white hair.

Finally he said, "I take it you've heard as well."

Of course, the man said nothing. Clever as he was, Cememketri was a savant when it came to the finer points of Court etiquette. According to ancient custom, the Emperor was not to be addressed without explicit consent. Few Emperors bothered with the Antique Protocol, as it was called, but now, with Xerius dead, ancient precedent was all that remained. The crossbow had been fired, now everything had to be reset.

"You have my leave to rise," Conphas said. "I hereby rescind the Antique Protocol. You may look me in the eye whenever you wish, Grandmaster."

Two milk-white slaves, Galeoth or Cepaloran, ducked in from the dark to raise the man by his elbows. Conphas was vaguely shocked: the past months had been hard on the old fool. Hopefully he had the strength Conphas required.

"Emperor," the white-haired sorcerer murmured while the slaves brushed the wrinkles from his black silk gown. "G.o.d-of-Men."

There it was ... His new name.

"So tell me, Grandmaster, what does the Imperial Saik make of these events?"

Cememketri studied him in the narrow way that, Conphas knew, had always unnerved his uncle. But not me But not me.

"We've waited long," the frail Schoolman said, "for one who might truly wield us ... for an Emperor Emperor."

Conphas grinned. Cememketri was an able man, and able men chafed under the rule of ingrates. The man could boast no ancestor scroll-but then sorcerers rarely could. He was Shiropti, a descendant of those Shigeki who had fled following the Imperial Army's disastrous defeat at Huparna centuries before. The fact that he had risen to the rank of Grandmaster despite these defects-Shiropti were widely seen as thieves and usurers-spoke to his ability.

But could he be trusted?

Of all the Schools, only the Imperial Saik answered to mundane powers, only they remained an organ of their state. Since Xerius believed all men as vain and treacherous as himself, he simply a.s.sumed they secretly resented their servitude, when in reality it had been his distrust they despised. The Imperial Saik, Conphas knew, revered their traditions. They took deep pride in the fact that they alone honoured the old Compactorium, the ancient indenture that had bound all the Schools to Cenei and her Aspect-Emperors in Near Antiquity. The Saik alone had kept this venerable faith. They thought the others, especially the Scarlet Spires, little more than usurpers, reckless arrogates whose greed threatened the very existence of the Few.

All men recited self-aggrandizing stories, words of ascendancy and exception, to balm the inevitable indignities of fact. An emperor need only repeat those stories to command the hearts of men. But this axiom had always escaped Xerius. He was too bent on hearing his own story repeated to learn, let alone speak, the flatteries that moved other men.

"I a.s.sure you, Cememketri, the Imperial Saik will be wielded, and with all the respect and consideration accorded by the Compactorium. You alone have prevailed over what is base and wanton. You alone have kept faith with the glory of your past."

Something akin to triumph brightened the man's mien. "You honour us, G.o.d-of-Men."

"Is all ready?"

"Very nearly so, G.o.d-of-Men."

Conphas nodded and exhaled. He reminded himself to be methodical, disciplined. "Has Sompas told you of Darastius?"

"Darastius and I shared the same Compa.s.s in Momemn, so I learned that he'd fallen silent while in transit. For a time I feared the worst, G.o.d-of-Men. It brings me immeasurable relief to find you-and your designs-intact."

Caller and Compa.s.s, the two poles of every sorcerous communication. The Compa.s.s was the anchor, the Schoolman who slept in the place known by the Caller, who entered his dreams bearing messages. This, Conphas knew, was but one of many reasons his uncle had harboured such suspicion of the Saik: so many of the Empire's communications pa.s.sed through them. He who controlled the messenger controlled the message as well. Which reminded him ...

"You know of the Scarlet Schoolman a.s.signed to the Scylvendi? Saurnemmi, his name is. No word of what happens here can reach the Holy War." He let his gaze communicate the stakes.

Cememketri's eyes had grown porcine with age, but they were sharp still. "If you deliver him alive, G.o.d-of-Men, we can ensure that the Scarlet fools will think all is well in Joktha. We need only incapacitate him before his a.s.signed contact time-our Compulsions will do the rest. He will tell his handlers whatever you wish. And Darastius will be amply avenged, I a.s.sure you."

Conphas nodded, realizing for the first time that it was Imperial Imperial favour he dispensed now. He hesitated, only for a heartbeat, but it was enough. favour he dispensed now. He hesitated, only for a heartbeat, but it was enough.

"You wish to know what happened," Cememketri said. "How your uncle fell ..." He stooped for a moment, then drew upright in what seemed a breath of resolution. "I know only what my Compa.s.s has told me. Even so, there's much we must discuss, G.o.d-of-Men."

"I imagine there is," Conphas said, waving with indulgent impatience. "But the near before the far, Grandmaster, the near before the far. We have a Scylvendi to break ..." He stared at the Schoolman with bland humour. "And a Holy War to annihilate."

CHAPTER SIX.

XERASH.

Of course we make crutches of one another. Why else would we crawl when we lose our lovers?

-ONTILLAS, ON THE FOLLY OF MEN

History. Logic. Arithmetic. These all should be taught by slaves.

-ANONYMOUS, THE n.o.bLE HOUSE