Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

Balendin shot him a scornful glance. “Il Tornja pinned Sanlitun’s murder on the priest, you fool. Or did you really think a ’Kent-kissing cleric could get past the Aedolian Guard?”

“The Aedolian Guard isn’t living up to its reputation these days,” Valyn replied, trying to make sense of the leach’s claim. “Or maybe you don’t remember our meeting with Micijah Ut out in the Bone Mountains.”

“They were in the Bone Mountains because they were the ones il Tornja could trust . He couldn’t send anyone loyal to your brother because they wouldn’t kill your fucking brother. That’s another clue for you, if you needed more clues. Uinian didn’t control the Aedolian Guard. He couldn’t have sent Ut anywhere.”

“And you,” Valyn said slowly, the magnitude of the betrayal sinking in. “Il Tornja commands the Kettral.”

“It still doesn’t make sense,” Talal said, frowning. “Why send Yurl and Balendin when he could send Fane or Shaleel? Why not send the Flea?”

The leach shook his head, as though incredulous that they could be so stupid. His rictus of pain did nothing to hide the scorn. “Because the Flea and Shaleel serve the Emperor. Il Tornja needed new blood, a young Wing, loyal to him and only him.”

“Loyal,” Valyn spat, “is a sick word to hear on your lips.”

“You’re the one asking the questions,” Balendin snarled. “You and your newfound Urghul ally.”

Long Fist raised a finger and they all fell still.

“Why did your war chief kill your emperor? What does he want?”

“The usual,” Balendin said, voice tight. “To rule. Rule everything. The Emperor is dead. Everyone thinks the priest murdered him.…”

“And now the priest, too, is dead,” Long Fist concluded.

Valyn frowned. “The trial is finished?” The last he’d heard, Uinian was still in captivity. Of course, that news was more than a month out of date now.

Long Fist nodded. “The princess,” he said. “Your sister. She burned him.”

“No,” Valyn replied, shaking his head. The shaman clearly had a tenuous grasp of imperial justice. “Adare didn’t burn anyone. Even traitors live under the rule of law in Annur. If Uinian was executed, he was convicted by a jury of the Seven.”

The shaman shrugged. “The priest is dead. Burned alive.”

“And you know this how?”

“I have watchers in your city.”

Valyn paused. It was unlike the Urghul to use spies. As far as the Kettral knew, the nomads were too disorganized, too indifferent to strategy and politics to manage much more than the occasional raiding party. Long Fist, however, was unexpected. He had managed to unify the Urghul, which meant he saw further or deeper than his fellow chiefs. Perhaps here, too, he was pressing the boundaries of tradition and custom. In any case, Valyn hadn’t heard a word regarding the situation in Annur, not since quitting the Islands. Even the shaman’s garbled intelligence was better than nothing.

“Where is Adare now?”

“Gone,” Long Fist said. “Disappeared.”

“Starting to see the pattern?” Balendin growled. “You don’t have to take my word for it. Il Tornja killed your father, then your sister. He ordered me to kill you, and he sent Ut and Adiv to take care of Kaden.”

“If il Tornja’s behind all this,” Valyn asked, trying to work it through, “why hasn’t he claimed the throne for himself yet? Why hasn’t he named himself Emperor?”

“Because he’s not fucking stupid.” The leach was cradling his maimed hand in his good one, but blood dripped from between his fingers. Valyn could smell it the same way that he could smell the leach’s mounting fear.

“Emperor,” Long Fist said quietly, exhaling the syllables in a slow wash of smoke. “It is, as you say, a name. A word. Nothing more. On the steppe we do not worship names, but your people are different. Perhaps il Tornja hides behind another word- regent -until his foes forget their opposition. On the steppe”-he made a curt, slashing motion with his hand-“it would not work, but among a soft folk obsessed with words, choosing the right word is nearly as important as doing the right thing.”

The shaman turned his attention back to Balendin, sucking slowly through the stem of his pipe as he watched the leach, then breathing out a slow cloud of smoke.

“And what,” he asked finally, “does Ran il Tornja want with my people? Why does he order these attacks against us?”

“I’m not his ’Kent-kissing confidant,” Balendin hissed, “but it seems pretty obvious.”

“Make it clear to me.”

“Legitimacy.”

Valyn stared at the leach, the pieces falling into place. Sanlitun’s political foes had often termed his policy with the Urghul appeasement. Since il Tornja’s elevation to kenarang, however, Annur had begun to take a harder position, fortifying the northern border, building new forts, even allowing strategic incursions over the White River.

It was hard to say precisely why il Tornja would want to antagonize the Urghul, but history furnished a few examples. Maybe he was angling for more coin in the coffers of the Ministry of War. Maybe he was looking to expand the upper ranks of the army, to justify the promotion of a few confederates. Or maybe he wanted an open war. Valyn forced himself to consider that last option. It made a certain mad sense, especially if the kenarang aspired to the Unhewn Throne itself. A sufficiently violent conflict would terrify the people of Annur, maybe terrify them enough that they would accept a seasoned warrior on the throne and overlook the fact that il Tornja lacked Intarra’s burning eyes.

Valyn hesitated, Sami Yurl’s final words echoing in his ears. “What about Csestriim?” he asked slowly. “Yurl claimed that the Csestriim were involved.”

Balendin stared at him, incredulous. “I understand that growing up in a palace could give you an inflated sense of your own importance, but I didn’t realize it went this far.” He shook his head. “Csestriim.”

Valyn frowned. There was something … strange in the leach’s words. Something missing. Before he could put his finger on it, however, Long Fist was putting down his pipe. He looked first at Balendin, then at Valyn.

“What, precisely, did this person-Yurl-say?” For the first time he looked truly invested, leaning forward slightly, hand on his knee.

Valyn shook his head. “He said the Csestriim were involved somehow. That they were behind it.”

“And there were those creatures, too,” Talal added. “The ak’hanath .”

Balendin shook his head. His face had gone ashen, but he kept his feet. Whatever else was true about him, the leach had spent half his life with the Kettral, and the Kettral trained you to deal with pain. “Yurl was an idiot. He fought well, but he was an idiot. We knew about the ak’hanath . Adiv told us they had something to do with the Csestriim originally, not that the Csestriim were still alive, still involved.”

He was lying. Valyn knew all at once, without understanding how he knew. Something about the smell of him, an oily scent that was not a scent at all, a sweet intangible reek of the raw nerves that accompanied deceit.

“Another finger?” Huutsuu asked, looking to the chieftain.

Long Fist nodded.

“No,” Balendin protested. “You fucking fools…”

But the Urghul woman was already on him, peeling back the small finger on the other hand, then driving the knife into the joint, twisting and sawing, blood spattering her face as the leach thrashed. When it was all finished, Balendin slumped against the warriors who restrained him.

Long Fist looked at him for a long time. “The Csestriim?” he asked again.