The Thousandfold Thought Part 13

The disarming of his men occurred beyond Caraskand's walls, across a fallow millet field. There were no incidents, though Conphas very nearly snapped his teeth presiding over it. Columnaries who could sleep in formation suddenly found the most basic commands unintelligible. Several watches pa.s.sed before all the various units were numbered and disarmed. When it was completed, his Columns, shorn of armour and insignia, looked little more than an a.s.sembly of half-starved beggars. Innumerable onlookers jeered from the walls.

Riding along their forward lines, Nersei Proyas called on those who had given themselves to the Warrior-Prophet to abandon their ranks. "The nations of our birth," he cried, "no longer command us. The customs of our fathers no longer command us. Our blood has ceased answering to what has come before ... Destiny, Destiny, not history, is our master!" not history, is our master!"

There was a moment of accusatory indecision, then the first defectors began pressing their way through their Orthodox brothers. The traitors gathered behind Proyas, some defiant, others mute, and for a moment it seemed the formations would dissolve in a ma.s.s exodus. Conphas watched stone-faced, his innards churning. Then, as though a soundless horn had pealed, the defections stopped. Conphas could scarce believe his eyes: the ranks remained intact. Fewer than one in five had left their places. Fewer than one in five!

Obviously vexed, Proyas spurred his horse down a lane between the formations, shouting, "You are Men of the Tusk!"

"We are veterans of Kiyuth!" someone bawled in a drill-master's voice.

"We answer to the Lion!" another cried.

"The Lion!"

For a heartbeat Conphas could scarce believe his ears. Then, as one, the hard-hearted survivors of the Selial and Nasueret Columns roared their approval. The shouting continued, growing in desperation and fury. Someone threw a stone, which clipped Proyas's helm. The Prince retreated, swearing in fury.

Conphas raised his forearm in Imperial salute, and his men raised theirs in thundering reply. Tears clouded his eyes. The bruise of his indignities began to fade, especially when he heard Proyas declare the terms extended by the Warrior-Prophet.

Conphas could scarcely conceal his glee. Apparently the Scarlet Spires had managed to relay a message to their mission in Momemn via Carythusal, and thence to Xerius. This meant that a forced march back across Khemema-which, perils aside, would have seriously compromised his timetable-was no longer necessary. Instead, he and the remnants of his Columns would be interned at Joktha, where they would await a fleet of transports that had been dispatched by his uncle.

No matter who threw the number-sticks, it seemed, he owned the results.

The following march along the River Oras to Joktha was uneventful. He spent much of the ride lost in thought, reviewing explanation after explanation. His staff followed at a discreet distance, watching with strange eyes, never daring to speak unless directly addressed. Periodically, he asked them questions.

"Tell me, what man doesn't aspire to G.o.dhead?"

The consensus was, not surprisingly, absolute. All men, they said, sought to emulate the G.o.ds, though only the most bold, the most honest, honest, dared voice their ambitions. Of course, the fools simply mouthed what they thought he wanted to hear. Ordinarily this would have incensed Conphas-no command could tolerate sycophants-but his uncertainty made him curiously indulgent. After all, according to the so-called Warrior-Prophet, his was a marred soul, a deformation born of the womb. The famed Ikurei Conphas was not quite human. dared voice their ambitions. Of course, the fools simply mouthed what they thought he wanted to hear. Ordinarily this would have incensed Conphas-no command could tolerate sycophants-but his uncertainty made him curiously indulgent. After all, according to the so-called Warrior-Prophet, his was a marred soul, a deformation born of the womb. The famed Ikurei Conphas was not quite human.

The strange thing was that he understood full well what the man had meant. His entire life, Conphas had known he was different. He never stammered in embarra.s.sment. He never blushed in the presence of his betters. He never minced his words with his worries. All around him, men jerked this way and that, pulled by hooks that he knew only by reputation: love, guilt, duty ... Though he understood how to use use these words well enough, they meant nothing to him. these words well enough, they meant nothing to him.

And the strangest thing of all was that he didn't care.

Listening to his officers oblige his vanity, Conphas came to a powerful realization: his beliefs mattered nothing, so long as they delivered what he wanted. Why make logic the rule? Why make fact the ground? The only consistency that mattered, the only correspondence, was that between belief and desire desire. If it pleased him to think himself divine, then so he would think. And Conphas understood that just as he possessed the remarkable ability to do do anything, no matter how merciful or bloodthirsty, he also possessed the ability to anything, no matter how merciful or bloodthirsty, he also possessed the ability to believe believe anything. The Warrior-Prophet could hang the ground vertical, make all things fall toward the horizon, and Conphas need only point sideways to restore the order of up and down. anything. The Warrior-Prophet could hang the ground vertical, make all things fall toward the horizon, and Conphas need only point sideways to restore the order of up and down.

Perhaps the sorcerer's tales of the Consult and the Second Apocalypse were true. Perhaps the Prince of Atrithau was some kind of saviour. Perhaps his soul was was deformed. It simply did not matter if he did not care. So he told himself that his life was his witness, that ages had pa.s.sed without producing a soul such as his, that the Wh.o.r.e of Fate l.u.s.ted for him and him alone. deformed. It simply did not matter if he did not care. So he told himself that his life was his witness, that ages had pa.s.sed without producing a soul such as his, that the Wh.o.r.e of Fate l.u.s.ted for him and him alone.

"The fiend couldn't attack you outright," General Sompas ventured, "not without risking more bloodshed, more losses." The caste-n.o.ble raised a hand against the sun to look directly at his Exalt-General. "So he heaped infamy on your name, kicked dirt across your fire, so that he alone might illumine the councils of the great."

Even though he knew the man simply flattered him, Conphas decided that he agreed agreed. He told himself that the Prince of Atrithau was the most accomplished liar he'd ever encountered-a veritable Ajokli! He told himself that the Council had been a trap, trap, the product of thorough rehearsal and painstaking premeditation. the product of thorough rehearsal and painstaking premeditation.

So he told himself, and so he believed believed. For Conphas, there was no difference between decision and revelation, manufacture and discovery. G.o.ds made themselves the rule. And he was one of them.

By the time he sighted Joktha's staunch towers on the fourth day, the bruise had utterly vanished. The old iron smirk rea.s.sumed command of his expression. I, I, Conphas thought to himself, Conphas thought to himself, have willed this have willed this.

Peering through the scattered hemlock trees, he idly surveyed his prison. Unlike most cities encountered by the Men of the Tusk, Joktha's curtain walls largely ignored the advantages of terrain. The location had been chosen for its natural harbour-which was merely the largest on a coastline pocked with several such harbours. The landward fortifications formed a long, wandering line, grey as bands of iron in the sun, intersected by the small city's single gate: the great barbican of the Tooth-so named because of the white tile adorning its exterior.

From his vantage on the banks of the Oras, Conphas could see little of the city save for the hazy heights of what was called the Donjon Palace, the stronghold of the city's masters. The surrounding countryside, though green and overgrown, betrayed the turmoil of the past season. Not a field had been planted. The orchards had been hacked to stumps. The encircling hills loomed dark, lined with ancient terracing and dotted with derelict villas. An abandoned Ceneian fort occupied a low promontory to the south, its stone so battered that it looked more a work of nature than of man. Only glimpses of sky through an intact window revealed its origins.

The world seemed as blasted as it should.

Suddenly they were riding through a loose stand of peppertrees, and Conphas found himself wondering at the wash of their sweet scent in the wind. Old Skauras had kept peppertrees, an entire grove of them, back when Conphas had been his hostage. It had been a notorious rendezvous, particularly for the seduction of slaves. He would need to hold on to such memories, Conphas realized, to preserve his resolve through the weeks to come. A captive had to always recall those he had mastered, lest he become one of them.

Another of Grandmother's lessons.

The road they followed veered away from the wooded banks of the Oras, and Conphas led his great and miserable train across denuded and fallow ground, directly toward the Tooth. What looked like two or three hundred Conriyan knights awaited them, arrayed to either side of the dark gate. His jailers. He was heartened, even amused, by their lackl.u.s.tre appearance and numbers.

The sight of the Scylvendi leaning on his pommel, however, struck his amus.e.m.e.nt dead.

The man wore his hauberk bare, save for the thick Scylvendi girdle about his waist. His black hair tangled about the folds of his mail hood, a complement to the Kianene scalps that fluttered from his horse's bridle.

Why him?

The Prince of Atrithau was a fiend-a cunning, cunning fiend! Even still.

Even still.

"Exalt-General ..."

Scowling, Conphas turned to his General. "What is it, Sompas?"

"How ..." the man sputtered. His eyes flashed with scarcely restrained fury. "How does he expect ..."

"The conditions are clear. I retain my freedom, so long as I remain within Joktha's walls. I retain my staff, and all the slaves that service it. I'm heir to the Mantle, Mantle, Sompas. To antagonize me is to antagonize the Empire. So long as they think me neutered, they'll play their game by the rules." Sompas. To antagonize me is to antagonize the Empire. So long as they think me neutered, they'll play their game by the rules."

"But ..."

Conphas scowled. Martemus had never hesitated with his questions, but then neither had he feared Conphas. Not really. Perhaps Sompas was the smarter man.

"You think we've been humiliated?"

"This is an outrage, Exalt-General! An outrage!"

It was the Scylvendi, Conphas realized. The disarming had been salt enough, but to submit to a Scylvendi Scylvendi? He mused for a moment, surprised that he'd thought only of the implications and nothing of this slight. Had the past months sheared away so many of the old intuitions? "You're mistaken, General. The Warrior-Prophet does us a favour."

"Favour? How ..." Sompas trailed as though horrified by his own vehemence. The man was forever forgetting and remembering his place. Conphas found it quite amusing, actually. How ..." Sompas trailed as though horrified by his own vehemence. The man was forever forgetting and remembering his place. Conphas found it quite amusing, actually.

"Of course. He's returned to me my most precious possession."

The fool could only stare.

"My men. He's returned to me my men. He's even culled them for me."

"But we are disarmed disarmed."

Conphas looked back at the great train of beggars that was his army. They looked shadowy in the dust, at once dark and pale, like a legion of wraiths too insubstantial to threaten, let alone harm.

Perfect.

He glanced one last time at his General. "Hold on to your worries, Sompas ..." He turned back to the Scylvendi, raising his hand in the mockery of a salute. "Your dismay," he muttered askance, "lends the stamp of authenticity to these proceedings."

I'm forgetting something.

The terrace was broad. The marmoreal paving stones were cracked here and there, as might be expected in a nation that suffered frost, but not in Enathpaneah. Even in the dark they were clearly visible, like rivers inked across maps. Cracks. No doubt the original residents had their slaves cast carpets over the offending stones, at least while entertaining guests. No Fanim Prince would tolerate such a defect. No Inrithi Lord.

Only an Utemot Chieftain.

Cnaiur nodded, rubbed his eyes, stamped his foot in an effort to stay awake. Blinking, he stared over the bal.u.s.trade and out across the city and port. Rooftop piled onto rooftop, climbing the near and distant slopes, and forming a broad basin about the piers and quays that ringed the inner harbour. A dishevelled landscape of structure, struck by streets like river canyons, all leading to the sea.

Joktha ... He need only blink to see it burn.

Above, innumerable stars dusted the firmament, curving into a perfect bowl so vast, so hollow, that it seemed a single twitch might send him floating skyward, falling. It reminded him of awakening at Kiyuth. He could almost smell his kinsmen sprawling dead in ever-widening gyres.

I'm forgetting ...

He drowsed. His copper wine bowl slipped from his fingers and rolled across the cracked stone. Events from the previous evening slurred through his soul. Conphas baiting him at the gates. Conphas arguing the terms of his internment. Conphas restrained by his Generals. His cuira.s.s glaring white in the sunlight. His long-lashed eyes.

I'm ...

The Scylvendi stirred in sudden remembrance, rolled his head about his ma.s.sive shoulders.

I'm Cnaiur ... Breaker-of-horses-and-men.

He laughed, drowsed some more, dreamed ...

He walked toward s.h.i.+meh, though it was identical to the Utemot camp of his youth, a congregation of several thousand yaksh. Herds ranged the surrounding plains, but no cattle dared approach him. He pa.s.sed the first of the yaksh, their hides tight against their poles, like skin about the ribs of dogs. The Utemot crowded the lanes between, limbs hanging from rotted sockets, viscera draped across their thighs. He saw all of them: his father's brother, Bannut, his brother-in-law, Balait, even Yursalka and his crippled wife. They watched him with the parchment eyes of the dead. He came across the first of his butchered chattel-a brown foal with his threefold mark. Then three cows, their throats cut, followed by a four-year-old bull, its head cudgelled. Soon he found himself climbing across mounds of horse and cattle carca.s.ses, all of them bearing his mark.

For some reason, he felt no surprise.

Then at last he came to the White Yaksh-the very heart of s.h.i.+meh. A spear had been driven into the ground next to the entrance. His father's head adorned the haft, pale skin drawn like water-sodden linen. Cnaiur tore his gaze away, drew aside the doeskin flap. Somehow he already knew that Moenghus had made a harem of his wives, so he was neither shocked nor outraged. But the blood unnerved him, as did the fishlike way Serwe opened and closed her mouth ... Anissi was screaming.

Moenghus looked up from his pa.s.sion and grinned a broad and welcoming grin. The Ikurei still lives, The Ikurei still lives, he said. he said. Why don't you kill him? Why don't you kill him?

"The time ... the time ..."

Are you drunk?

"Nepenthe ... All that the bird gave to me ..."

Ah ... so you yearn to forget after all.

"No ... not forget. Sleep."

So why not kill him?

"Because he he wants me to." wants me to."

The Dunyain? You think this is a trap?

"His every word is a feint. His every look a spear!"

Then what's his intent?

"To keep me from his father. To deny me my hate. To betray-"

But all you need do is kill the Ikurei. Kill him, and you are free to follow the Holy War.

"No! There is something! Something I'm ..."

You're a fool.

Somehow Cnaiur raised his face to the muck of wakefulness, peered through ocean-swimming eyes, and saw it it perched on the bal.u.s.trade before him, its scalp polished in starlight, its feathers shot with black silk, the world floating like smoke beyond it. perched on the bal.u.s.trade before him, its scalp polished in starlight, its feathers shot with black silk, the world floating like smoke beyond it.

"Bird!" he cried. "Devil!"

The tiny face leered. The eyes became heavy-lidded, like a demon dreaming.

"Kiyuth," it said, "where the Ikurei humiliated you and your People. Avenge the Battle of Kiyuth!"

I'm forgetting something.

How could absent things remain? How could they be be?

Each swazond a dead man grinning. Each night a dead woman's embrace ...

Days pa.s.sed, and Cnaiur tried hard to fathom the depths that pitched about him. Conphas and his Nansur were his immediate concern-or should have been. Proyas had given him the barons Tirnemus and Sanumnis with their 370-odd client knights, as well as the 58 survivors of his old band from s.h.i.+gek. Like all Men of the Tusk, they were battle-hardened, but they made no effort to conceal their dismay at having been left behind. "Blame the Nansur," Cnaiur told them. "Blame Conphas." They were thoroughly outnumbered by their Nansur charges, and Cnaiur needed as much aggression as they could muster.

When Baron Sanumnis expressed misgivings, Cnaiur reminded him that these men had conspired to betray the Holy War, the Holy War, and that no one knew when the Emperor's transports would arrive. "They can overwhelm us at will," he said. "So we must strip their will from them." and that no one knew when the Emperor's transports would arrive. "They can overwhelm us at will," he said. "So we must strip their will from them."

Of course, he said nothing of his true motives. These men had chosen Ikurei Conphas over the Dunyain Dunyain ... One must always chain the dog before murdering the master. ... One must always chain the dog before murdering the master.

A squalid camp of sorts was struck along Joktha's walls, far enough from the Oras to keep a good number of the Columnaries occupied with drawing and delivering water. Knowing well the organizational strengths of the Imperial Army, Cnaiur segregated the older soldiers-the Threesies as they were called-from the younger. The officers he interned in a different camp altogether. Because of the mutual enmity between the largely caste-n.o.ble cavalrymen and the caste-menial infantrymen, Cnaiur had the Kidruhil dissolved and scattered through the Columns. As a further measure, he had his Conriyans continually circulate rumours: that Conphas had been overheard blubbering in his chambers, that the officers had rioted when they learned their rations were no different from the enlisted men's-the kinds of rumours that gnawed at every army's heart. Even when universally dismissed, they served to distract idle souls and to drown those truths that did surface.

Cnaiur restricted Conphas and the forty-two men of his immediate coterie to the city-as per the Conditions of Internment. He forbade all contact with his Columnaries, for obvious reasons. Since imprisoning him outright could provoke a revolt, he allowed the Imperial Nephew what liberty Joktha provided. Even as he obsessively pondered the man's murder.

He understood why Kellhus wanted Conphas dead: the Dunyain suffered no rivals. Likewise, he understood why Kellhus had chosen him him as his a.s.sa.s.sin. Of as his a.s.sa.s.sin. Of course course the savage had killed the Lion. Was he not the savage had killed the Lion. Was he not Scylvendi Scylvendi? Was he not a survivor of Kiyuth Kiyuth?

What tormented him was what these understandings implied. If murdering Moenghus was Kellhus's sole mission, then preserving the Holy War should be his sole concern. Why a.s.sa.s.sinate Conphas when he need only remove him from the game-as he had? And why use Cnaiur to conceal his involvement, when the consequences-open war with the Empire-would have no bearing on the imminent conquest of s.h.i.+meh?

And Cnaiur realized ... There was no way around it: the Dunyain was looking beyond the Holy War-past s.h.i.+meh. And to see past s.h.i.+meh was to see past Moenghus Moenghus.

Men draped a.s.sumptions, endless a.s.sumptions, about their acts; they could scarce do otherwise, given their errant hunger for meaning. Since the beginning, Cnaiur had conceived their journey as a hunt, hunt, as a collusion of enemies in pursuit of a greater foe. Their quest had always seemed an arrow fired into darkness. No matter how deep his misgivings, he had always come back to this understanding. But now ... Now it seemed like nothing other than a as a collusion of enemies in pursuit of a greater foe. Their quest had always seemed an arrow fired into darkness. No matter how deep his misgivings, he had always come back to this understanding. But now ... Now it seemed like nothing other than a collar; collar; that Moenghus and Kellhus, father and son, were but different ends of a mighty torc that he, Cnaiur urs Skiotha, had bent about the very neck of the world. A slaver's collar. that Moenghus and Kellhus, father and son, were but different ends of a mighty torc that he, Cnaiur urs Skiotha, had bent about the very neck of the world. A slaver's collar.