David Farland - The Lair of Bones

“What do you want out of the bargain?” she asked.

“Reaver curses have blackened the land through all of the southern kingdoms of Indhopal. My people need food to last out the winter.”

“The stores at Carris won’t be enough to do much good,” Rialla argued.

“It will be enough to ensure that the strong and the cunning survive,” Raj Ahten said. “The rest can starve.

“Beyond this,” he continued, “I’ll need Dedicates to grant me endowments. Any lords that I capture in Rofehavan will become mine, spoils of war.”

“And what do you offer in return, if I grant your request?” Rialla asked.

“In a year’s time I will rule as king of all Rofehavan, and you shall rule beside me as my queen.”

Rialla was breathing hard. Now she stepped back, and though her lust had nearly overpowered her, her face took on a calculating look. Indeed, Raj Ahten realized that she had been playing him as much as he played her. He had just revealed his heart to her. Now she revealed her heart to him. “You have many wives in your harem. If I’m to rule at your side, there must be only one.”

Raj Ahten liked her pluck. “They are not wives, merely baubles, toys. I had but one wife, and Gaborn took her from me as surely as he took your father from you.”

“If your wives mean nothing to you,” Rialla said, “kill them for me.”

Fire whispered within him, “Yes, let her have them. Thus will I make her mine.”

“Better than that,” Raj Ahten said, “I will give you a knife, and let you kill them yourself.”

He waited to see if she would flinch or back away from the deed. Instead, Rialla Lowicker, the future Queen of Rofehavan grabbed by him the throat and pushed him to the floor as she struggled to tear off his clothes.

Shortly after dawn, a bloody sun rose over Deyazz. The roosters crowed loudly in the streets of Ghusa, as if they were seeing the sun for the very first time.

Raj Ahten’s facilitator Turaush Kasill trudged down the streets of the city, until he found an old ramshackle hut behind the brickyard. The hut was a lean-to made of sticks angled against an ancient stone wall. Hides atop the sticks served as a roof to keep out the rain and the noonday sun.

The smoldering ashes of a campfire still burned before the hut. The smell of human waste was everywhere. Turaush wrinkled his nose in disgust, and clapped his hands twice.

“Balimar?” he called. “Balimar Mahaddim?”

A young man quickly thrust his head out from behind a hide flap of the lean-to. His eyes were red, as if he had been weeping or had lain awake sleepless the whole night.

Surely he had been searching for his little sister and brother, the beggars from the market. Now, worn from a lack of sleep, his wits would be dull. At least, Turaush hoped that they would.

“Yes?” the boy asked. “You called”—he glanced at Turaush’s fine robes and lowered his eyes in respect—“O Great Kaif?”

“I called,” Turaush said. “Your little sister and brother were found begging for food in the markets last night.”

“You know where they are?” Balimar asked with a tone of relief.

“I do,” Turaush answered. “Would you like to see them?”

The boy Balimar pushed himself out from under the flaps of his lean-to, and grabbed onto the wall for support. Turaush could see the white weal of a scar on his hip, and the boy’s leg was still bandaged, but he looked to be mostly healed. He had a brawny build, with a thick neck and strong biceps, but his eyes showed no intelligence. He was a facilitator’s dream—brawn, stamina, perhaps even grace. Such a young man had a wealth of possibilities.

“Where are they?” the boy asked suspiciously.

“They sold themselves for food,” Turaush said.

“As slaves?” the boy asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

“As Dedicates,” Turaush said. “They now serve our lord Raj Ahten.” Turaush put all the power of his voice into this last, hinting by his tone that theirs was a noble service, something to be desired.

“I...” the boy’s voice faltered. Words failed him. “I’ve never met the man,” he apologized.

“He is a great lord,” Turaush said, “the greatest who ever lived. Not two days ago, they say he slew a great reaver in Kartish, the Lord of the Underworld. And even now he rides to defend our realm from the evil kings of Rofehavan. You should be proud of your brother and sister. They render a great service to our lord.”

Balimar looked about in confusion. He was a bit darker of skin than his brother and sister, almost as if he were a bastard, fathered by a stranger. His eyes were darker than almond. He had his hair cropped short, in the style of young men who like to wrestle in the streets on feast days, hoping that by their skill they may win entry into the Raj’s army. “My mother will be sad to hear this, when she gets back.”

“Where is your mother?” Turaush asked.

“She went to see her sister, who lives in Jezereel. She was hoping that her sister’s husband would take us all in. But that was last spring, and she hasn’t returned.”

“The village of Jezereel is less than a week’s walk from here,” Turaush said after a moment’s thought. He was an inspired liar, and often amazed even himself with the way he managed to twist the truth. “But the trail through the hills is rife with robbers and thieves. I suspect that your mother will not return. I fear that she fell to them.” Turaush let a note of false grief accompany his tone, as if to confirm the woman’s death, rather than just raise the possibility. “How will you ever take care of your brothers and sisters?”

Balimar looked down hopelessly. “My leg is healing well. I’ll be able to work again in a month or two.”

“Without nourishing food,” Turaush whispered, “you will only languish. And when you die, the little ones will surely follow.”

Balimar looked about hopelessly, his eyes watering with grief at the thought. “What can I do?” At his back, a pair of toddlers now appeared. Two small children with big eyes, staring plaintively at Turaush. Their hunger was plain on their faces.

“Come follow me,” Turaush said. “Give yourself to our lord, and we shall feed you well—you and the little ones. You can tend them there in the palace. They will not be left comfortless.”

Balimar looked about helplessly. “What can I give that would let me care for the children. My hearing?”

“You would not hear the cries of the young ones in the night then,” Turaush argued gently. “Give stamina, I think. You will be able to care for them.”

“And what of my leg?” Balimar asked. “It will never heal.”

Turaush merely smiled, letting his glamour argue for him. You fool , his smile said, to be so full of concern. He added after a moment, “The finest physics in all of Indhopal grace the Palace at Ghusa. For a thousand years, the lords of the land have come to take the air in its lofty towers, to bathe in the healing springs at its base. We shall find herbs and balms for your wound. In a week or two, the muscles will mend, and the pain will be gone.”

Balimar’s lower lip was quivering, and he stood belligerently, the way an ox will stop at the butcher’s stall when it smells the blood of its fellows.

This one is not as stupid as he looks, Turaush thought. The leg will never heal once he grants his stamina, and the boy knows that.

He reached out his hand, and grasped Balimar’s. “Come,” Turaush urged. “The time is short. Your brother and sister call for you, and breakfast awaits....”