Part 23 (1/2)

In the blackness beneath a stand of carob trees, Serwe and another of her brothers awaited them, along with eight horses laden with supplies. Dawn had not yet broken when they heard the first of the horns, faint in the distance behind them.

A word dogged Emperor Ikurei Conphas, a word he had always regarded from the outside.

Terror.

He sat weary, leaning against the pommel of his saddle, watching the torches bob through the dark trees before him. Sompas waited quietly to his right, as did several others. Shouts echoed through the encampment behind them. The darkness teemed with searching lights.

”Scylvendi!” Conphas found himself crying out to the black. ”Scylvendi!” ”Scylvendi!” He need not look to his officers to see their questioning expressions. He need not look to his officers to see their questioning expressions.

What was it about this man-this fiend? How had he affected him so? For all the hatred the Nansur bore toward the Scylvendi race, they were perversely enamoured of them as well. There was a mystique to them, and a virility that transcended the myriad rules that so constricted the intercourse of civilized men. Where the Nansur wheedled and negotiated, the Scylvendi simply took-seized. It was as though they had embraced violence whole, while the Nansur had shattered it into a thousand pieces to set as splinters across the multiform mosaic of their society.

It made them seem ... more manly.

And this one Scylvendi, this Utemot Chieftain. Conphas had witnessed it, as much as any of the Columnaries whod quailed before him in Joktha. In the firelight the barbarian's eyes had been coals set in his skull. And the blood had painted him the colour of his true skin. The swatting arms, the roaring voice, the chest-pounding declarations. They had all seen the G.o.d. They had all seen dread Gilgaol rearing about him, a great horned shadow ...

And now, after wrestling him to the ground like some lunatic bull, after the wonder of capturing him-capturing War!-he had simply vanished had simply vanished.

Cememketri insisted no sorcery was involved, and for the first time Conphas appreciated his uncle's manic suspicion of the Saik. Could they have done it? Or could it be, as Cememketri had nervously suggested, the Faceless Ones? Several of his soldiers maintained they had seen Sompas Sompas leading the Scylvendi through the camp-a rank impossibility, given that Conphas himself had gone to the man immediately after leaving the Scylvendi. leading the Scylvendi through the camp-a rank impossibility, given that Conphas himself had gone to the man immediately after leaving the Scylvendi.

Faceless Ones ... Skin-spies the Mandate Schoolman had called them. Since learning from Cememketri that Xerius had been murdered by one of these things posing as his grandmother, Conphas had found himself rehearsing the Mandate fool's arguments from that day in Caraskand when they had debated the Prince of Atrithau's fate. They were not Cishaurim, Conphas had conceded that much. It was even more clear now that Xerius was dead. Why would the Cishaurim murder the only man who might save them?

They weren't Cishaurim, but did that make them Consult, Consult, as the Mandati had insisted? Were these truly the opening hours of the as the Mandati had insisted? Were these truly the opening hours of the Second Apocalypse Second Apocalypse?

Terror. How could he not be terrified?

All this time Conphas had a.s.sumed that he and his uncle had stood at the root of all that happened. No matter how the others plotted, they but thrashed in the nets of his hidden designs-or so he thought. Such errant conceit! All along, others others had known, others had watched, and he hadn't the slightest inkling of their intentions! had known, others had watched, and he hadn't the slightest inkling of their intentions!

What was happening? Who ruled these events?

Not Emperor Ikurei Conphas I.

His aquiline face outlined by torchlight, Sompas looked at him expectantly, but he kept his counsel like the others. They could sense his humour, understood that it was more than merely ”foul.” Conphas scanned the moon-blanched countryside, felt the despairing twinge all men felt when confronted by the dimensions of the world that had swallowed those they desired. Were he one, were he alone, it would be hopeless.

But he was not one. He was many many. The ability to cede voice and limb to the will of another-herein lay the true genius of men. The ability to kneel kneel. With such power, Conphas realized, he was no longer confined to the here and now. With such power, he could reach across the world's very curve! He was Emperor.

How could he not cackle? Such a wondrous life he lived!

He need only make things simple simple. And he would start with this Scylvendi ... He had no choice.

That he was Scylvendi Scylvendi could be no coincidence. Here Conphas stood on the cusp of restoring the Empire to all her past glory, only to discover that everything turned on killing a son of his ancestral enemy, the people who had overthrown the pretensions of his race time and again. He had said it himself, hadn't He? He was Kyraneas. He was Cenei ... could be no coincidence. Here Conphas stood on the cusp of restoring the Empire to all her past glory, only to discover that everything turned on killing a son of his ancestral enemy, the people who had overthrown the pretensions of his race time and again. He had said it himself, hadn't He? He was Kyraneas. He was Cenei ...

No wonder the savage had laughed!

The G.o.ds were behind this-Conphas was certain of it. They begrudged their brother. Like children of a different father, they resented resented. There was a message to this-how could there not not be? He had been served some kind of warning. He was Emperor now. A move had been made. The rules had been changed ... be? He had been served some kind of warning. He was Emperor now. A move had been made. The rules had been changed ...

Why? Why hadn't he killed the fiend? What vice or vanity had stayed his hand? Was it the iron hand clamped about his neck? The burn of the man's seed upon his back?

”Sompas!” he fairly cried.

”Yes, G.o.d-of-Men?”

”How does 'Exalt-General' suit you as a t.i.tle?”

The ingrate swallowed. ”Very well, G.o.d-of-Men.”

How he missed Martemus and the cool cynicism of his gaze. ”Take the Kidruhil-all of them. Hunt down this demon for me, Sompas. Bring me his head and that shall be your t.i.tle ... Exalt-General, Spear-of-the-Empire.” His eyes narrowed in menace as he smiled. ”Fail me and I shall burn you, your sons, your wives-every Biaxi breathing. I shall burn you all alive.”

Relying on Serwe's preternatural vision, they led their horses through the pitch of night, knowing their only advantage lay in whatever distance they could travel before sunrise. They picked their way across high scrub and gra.s.s slopes, then down into a wooded vale where the bitter of cedars braced the air. Despite his injuries, Cnaiur shambled after them, drawing on something as inexhaustible as l.u.s.t or fear. About him, the world reeled more and more, and simple things became nightmarish with intent. Dark trees clutched at him, drew nails across his cheeks and shoulders. Unseen rocks kicked at his sandalled toes. The ringed moon laid him bare.

Thought slurred into thought. He spat blood continually. The path before him, shadowy and granular, rolled beneath his staggering legs. A greater dark unfolded through the night, and he pa.s.sed out of memory, wondering, how could souls flicker?

Then Serwe was staring down at him. He felt her thighs beneath his neck, firm and warm through her linen tunic. She leaned forward and her breast brushed his temple. She retrieved a waterskin, used it to wet a rag. She had been tending to the cuts on his face.

She smiled and a ragged breath stole through him. There was such sanctuary in the lap of woman, a stillness that made the world, with all its thres.h.i.+ng fury, seem small instead of encompa.s.sing, errant instead of essential. He winced as she dabbed a cut above his left eye. He savoured the sense of cool water warming against his skin.

The black plate of night was beginning to grey. Looking up, he saw the faint nimbus of hair about her jaw. He reached up to brush it, but hesitated when he glimpsed the scabs across his knuckles. He became alarmed. Though the pain of his wounds lay like a weight upon him, he jerked himself upright, coughed, and spat a mouthful of b.l.o.o.d.y sputum. They sat upon a gra.s.sy round on the summit of some hill. The east warmed to the unseen sun. Ridgelines wandered across the intervening miles, dark with vegetation, pale with nude stone faces.

”I'm forgetting something,” he said.

She nodded and smiled the blithe and jubilant way she always did when she knew some answer.

”The one you hunt,” she said. ”The murderer.”

He felt his face darken. ”But I I am the murderer! The most violent of all men! They slouch forward in chains. They ape their fathers, just as their fathers aped their fathers before them, all the way back to the beginning. Covenants of earth. Covenants of blood. I stood and found my chains were smoke. I turned and saw the void...I am unfettered!” am the murderer! The most violent of all men! They slouch forward in chains. They ape their fathers, just as their fathers aped their fathers before them, all the way back to the beginning. Covenants of earth. Covenants of blood. I stood and found my chains were smoke. I turned and saw the void...I am unfettered!”

She studied him for a moment, her perfect face poised between thought and moonlight. ”Yes ... like the one you hunt.”

What were these shallow creatures?

”You call yourself my lover? You think yourself my proof? My prize?”

She blinked in dread and sorrow. ”Yes ...”

”But you are a knife! You are a spear and hammer. You are nepenthe-opium! You would make a haft of my heart, and brandish me. Brandish me!”

”And me,” a masculine voice said. ”What of me?”

One of her brothers had sat to his right-only it wasn't one of her brothers. It was him ... the serpent whose coils ever tightened about his heart: Moenghus, Moenghus, the murderer, wearing the armour and insignia of a Nansur infantry captain. the murderer, wearing the armour and insignia of a Nansur infantry captain.

Or was he Kellhus?

”You ...”

The Dunyain nodded, and the air became yaksh dank-yaksh sour. ”What am I?”