David Coe - Weavers of War

The guards seemed content to remain where they were, no doubt believing that the hood rendered Dusaan powerless to harm the emperor. Within the muslin the Weaver smiled.

“I fear that some of your gold has been misused, Your Eminence.”

Harel stopped pacing. “What? How much?”

“Quite a lot actually. Several thousand qinde, at least.”

“Several thousand! How is this possible?”

“It’s difficult to say, Your Eminence. I found some notes that I had written down some time ago and I realized that the numbers on those notes were not consistent with what I remember being requested by the fleet commanders in the strait.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It would be easier to explain if we had the accountings here with us. Perhaps you can have the master of arms summoned.”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.” Harel approached the guards at the door. “Have the master of arms brought here at once, and make certain that he brings the fee accountings.” Harel hesitated, then turned to Dusaan. “All of them?”

“No, Your Eminence. Only the current one.”

“The current fee accountings,” Harel repeated to the guard, as if the man couldn’t hear.

The soldier left them, and Harel resumed his pacing.

For a long time the emperor merely walked, saying nothing, though Dusaan sensed his impatience mounting. The high chancellor would have liked for Harel’s wives to leave. The harpist, too. He had no desire to harm them, but neither could he have them running through the palace raising the alarm.

“How could this have happened?” Harel finally demanded, sounding like a petulant boy. “Where could the gold have gone if not to the fleet?”

“Your Eminence, it might be best if we discuss this matter in private.”

“What? Oh, yes, of course.” Dusaan heard him snap his fingers. An instant later the music stopped, as did the whispers and soft laughter. “Leave us. I’ll call for you again later.”

The two wives rose and walked quickly from the chamber, followed closely by the harpist.

“Now, Dusaan, can you tell me where this gold might have gone?”

“Actually, Your Eminence, I believe so.”

He sensed the emperor’s surprise. “You can? Where?”

“I think it will be easier to explain when the master of arms arrives with the fee accountings.”

“Damn you, Dusaan! Stop weaving mists and tell me what’s happened to my gold!”

Before the Weaver could respond, there came a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Harel shouted.

A guard stepped into the chamber to announce the master of arms, but the emperor cut him off and called for Uriad, who stepped past the man and knelt. The guard remained by the door, which Dusaan had expected. Four guards in all, the emperor, and Uriad.

“You asked for this, Your Eminence?” said the master of arms, apparently referring to the fee accountings.

“Yes. According to the high chancellor, some of my gold has been lost.”

He sensed Uriad turning to face him. “Before or after I took control of the accounts?”

“Before. The fault is mine, armsmaster, not yours.”

“I’ve been trying to get him to tell me where the gold has gone, but he won’t answer me.”

“It’s not that I won’t answer, but rather that I wanted Uriad to hear what I had to say.” He reached up and began to untie the cords that held his hood in place.

“What are you doing?” Harel demanded.

“I’m removing this damned hood.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Dusaan continued to work the knot loose.

“Stop him!” the emperor said, his voice rising.

The guards converged on him. The two who had been nearest the throne were closer, and so he struck at them first, hammering at them with his shaping power. He heard the muffled snapping of bone and the clattering of swords and mail as they fell to the floor. He didn’t even turn to kill the other two. His magic was as precise and lethal as a war hammer; it was as effortless to wield as an Uulranni blade.

The two guards from the corridor burst into the chamber. Dusaan whirled and conjured a great killing flame that enveloped them like a mist. Within seconds he heard their blades fall to the floor.

He sensed that Uriad was gathering himself for an assault.

“Don’t do it, armsmaster,” Dusaan warned, turning once more toward Harel and his master of arms. “The emperor would be dead before you took your first step. And neither of you had better call for help. I’ll kill you for that as well.” Without even looking back he summoned a wind that blew the doors closed.

“But you can’t see!” the emperor whispered.

The Weaver laughed. “You’re a fool, Harel. You collect Qirsi the way other men collect fine blades or Sanbiri mounts, but you’ve never bothered to learn anything about us or our magic. I don’t need to see you to use my power against you. I can sense your every movement.” He pulled off the hood to find Harel staring at him as if the high chancellor had grown into some beast from a child’s darkest dream. Uriad stood near the emperor, his sword drawn, as if that might protect them. Just for amusement, Dusaan shattered the blade.

“What is it you want?” Harel asked, his voice quavering.

“It’s not a matter of what I want, Your Eminence. You’re the one who asked me what happened to your gold. I can tell you exactly what happened to every qinde, every silver that was diverted from your treasury. It has been given to the Qirsi movement.”

It took Harel a moment. “The Qirsi movement? You mean the conspiracy?”

“No, you fat fool, I mean the Qirsi movement. That’s what we call it. What I call it.”

“So you’re a traitor.” Uriad sounded calm, as a warrior should. Perhaps Kayiv had prepared him for this before his death.

“I’m more than that, armsmaster. I’m the traitor. I created what you call the conspiracy, and I’m its leader. And still, I’m even more than that. I’m the most powerful Qirsi either of you has ever known.” He smiled. “I’m a Weaver.”

That morning, when he revealed his powers to the emperor’s other Qirsi, he had reveled in their awe. This, he had thought at the time, is how Qirsi across the Forelands will receive me. With wonder and reverence. But that was nothing compared with the fear he now sensed from both the emperor and his master of arms. While his own people would exalt him, the Eandi would tremble before him. His people would see in him the embodiment of a glorious future; the Eandi would see in his powers the promise of their own doom. Harel’s terror strengthened Dusaan, until he felt that he was invincible, that entire armies were not enough to quell his power.

“A Weaver,” the emperor repeated, as if he had never heard the word before.

“By law, Weavers are to be executed.”

Dusaan regarded the master of arms, noting the fighter’s stance, the way his hand wandered toward the hilt of his dagger. “I respect you, Uriad. I want you to know that. I have nothing but contempt for our emperor here, for most Eandi really, particularly those one finds in the courts. But I’ve always thought that you were an uncommonly thoughtful man for one of your race.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Really? I’ve always thought you an arrogant bastard, who was more smug than he was intelligent.”

Dusaan blinked. After a moment, he tried to laugh away the remark, but he felt as though he’d been slapped. And perhaps sensing that he had caught the Weaver off guard, Uriad chose that moment to launch himself forward, his dagger in hand, his arm cocked to strike at Dusaan’s heart. Recovering quickly, the Weaver battered the man with his shaping power, fracturing not only the blade, but also Uriad’s wrist and forearm.