Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

They were rowdy men, that was clear to all. But they were daylight dwellers, and they lacked guile. After their initial shock at the incongruous smile on this stranger’s hideous face, they shared with him all he needed to know—and more.

“Any unusual doings?” he asked, his voice taking on that peculiar edge common to Lamath, and especially to Lamathian sailors.

“They’re all unusual in these times,” the blond sailor grunted, gazing stupidly into his beer. “No peace for a sailing man. They all want to make you navy.”

“Navy, yes,” the other man agreed, drunkenly stabbing a finger into the air for emphasis. “This war, it is. Always the wars. Do I look like a fighter?” he asked, grabbing his tunic and looking imploringly at the ugly stranger. The blond found something hilarious in this, and convulsed onto the bar top in a spasm of giggling.

“I mean the supernatural.” Admon Faye went on grinding his teeth behind his phony smile.

“You mean religion?”

“That, or magic.”

“Quit there!” the dark-haired sailor yelled at his drunken friend, and he shoved him off the bar and onto the floor. “What was that? Magic?”

“Magic,” Admon Faye repeated, his cold eyes meeting the sailor’s firmly.

“Where you from?” the sailor muttered.

“Does it matter?” Admon Faye asked quietly, shoving several pieces of gold into the sailor’s hand without any audible clink. The seaman’s grip tightened around the coins, and he shook his head slowly from side to side.

“Any magic then, my friend?” the slave trader asked, eyebrows raised inquiringly.

“No magic in Lamath,” the sailor whispered. “You show by that you don’t belong, despite your accent. But there is religion, now, and plenty of it, and wonders worked regular these days.”

“Where?”

“Seventy miles east of the capital, about. Ask after the Priestess, they’ll all know where. Though why you should want to go…” He didn’t finish his sentence, for there was no one to finish it to. In three long strides Admon Faye was out the door and gone.

He searched throughout the village for a horse, but found none available. He walked the two miles to the next village only to find the same result.

“All the horses are gone for the army,” one man told him. “If you want one, you’ll have to join the army, too.” The slaver scoffed at that, and walked another three miles toward the capital. When he discovered the man had spoken the truth, he didn’t hesitate. Late that afternoon, Admon Faye, resplendent in newly woven Lamathian blue, sat astride a pretty white pony that had been issued to him by the Department of Defense and Expansion. Still later, the new uniform was stuffed into his handbag, and pony and rider rode swiftly through the night. For the first time in many days, Admon Faye felt at home.

From the walls of Chaomonous, the column looked like a golden snake that slithered ever northward to Lamath and to war. It was not as large as Talith had hoped, but forty-seven thousand was still a mighty fighting force, and the King would not allow this small disappointment to rob him of his sense of achievement. He rode now at the head of the column, but he frequently checked behind to see that his litter was keeping up. He wasn’t about to let this conquering-hero business deprive him of the simple human comforts.

With him rode Generals Joss and Rolan-Keshi, the latter still chafing at being robbed of the command, the former wishing he had a late report on events inside the palace. Also traveling with them was young Tahli-Damen, dressed in his usual purple and red—he was the only man in the column not clothed in the colors of the King. He felt very out of place in this company.

Jagd had carefully outlined for Tahli-Damen the plan laid for Talith’s betrayal, and had assured him that success in this enterprise would thrust Tahli-Damen into the highest echelon of merchant leadership. There was only one problem to all this, Tahli-Damen reflected. He would feel very fortunate if he survived.

On the walls of the Crown Palace of Chaomonous, other orders were being issued—orders every bit as treacherous as those Tahli-Damen labored to hide. Kherda clung to a stone abutment and watched in amazement as the column wound farther and farther north, passing around a stand of mountains and out of sight. He was trembling again, but no longer from fear. Now he shook with excitement. The day had come! He had succeeded in dispatching Talith to war without his plot being uncovered. He heard Ligne clicking off orders behind him, but he paid no attention. His job was done. Now he could rest.

He felt no elation as he heard the clatter of metalshod feet on the cobblestones below him and in the hallways within.

He felt no remorse as he heard shouts of alarm and cries of distress and pain. He had orchestrated. this takeover of Talith’s palace—now he listened as someone else conducted it, knowing in advance when new sounds would be added, listening for and hearing new clashes begin on cue. He clung to the cool stone, leaning his cheek against it and waiting for word that the coup had been successful, and that Ligne was in control of the palace.

Ligne stalked through the halls, her eyes flashing a warning to anyone who might accost her. For months she had been the Queen in effect—now she was the Queen in fact, and well known to each of the combatants who struggled in the corridor. No one bothered her as she pushed with purposeful stride past friend and foe alike. Bodies fell to her right and left, and there were cries of disbelief and screams of horror on every side, but she paid them no mind as she glided, pantherlike, to the door of her rival’s apartment, and slammed it open.

“Welcome, Ligne dear. I was expecting you.” Latithia’s tone was light and trivial, as if the noise of the battle beyond the wall had nothing to do with her. Ligne glanced around at the carnage to assure herself that her forces were firmly in charge, then stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

“You were expecting me? Really?” She smiled sweetly, taking her cue from Latithia.

“Of course I was.” Latithia smiled back. “Won’t you have some tea?” The deposed Queen poured Ligne a cup of the steaming liquid, and set it on the table. Ligne slipped into the offered chair, and fingered the rim of the cup.

“You surprise me, Latithia. I had expected tears, or pleas—you seem determined to take the fun out of this for me.”

“I’m so pleased to have disappointed you,” Latithia replied brightly. “I have always felt it becomes a lady of position to be able to cope with the inevitable.”

“And my victory was inevitable,” Ligne gloated. “No. My husband’s defeat was.”

Latithia rose gracefully, carrying her teacup in both hands. “Anyone could have overthrown him. He was a rotting apple, ripe for the plucking.”

“You speak of him in the past tense, dear. Have you already consigned him to the grave?”

“Hmm?” Latithia asked, sipping her tea. “Oh no.

Not him. Myself.”

“You wrong me,” Ligne protested unconvincingly. “I have no interest in taking your life.”

“Yet.”

Latithia smiled. “That would be a bit much right now, wouldn’t it? After all, you’ll need to convince the peasants that your cause is Just, and that your rule will be fair. Once your reign, is secure, there will be plenty of time to behead the old Queen—” Latithia stopped, and pointed to Ligne’s cup. “You haven’t touched your tea.”

“I don’t intend to,” Ligne snorted.

Latithia paused for a moment. She seemed to be listening at last to the clash of arms in the hallway. The noise was receding, as Ligne’s trained insurgents swept away the last resistance of Talith’s paltry guard. Just that morning, the King had reversed Joss’ order to station more men in the palace. With difficulty, Latithia refocused her eyes on Ligne, and murmured, “Pity—I had hoped to take you with me.” Then she clutched her stomach, squinting at the sudden pain, and toppled to the parquet floor.