Paul Kearney - The ten thousand

One hundred and seventeen ships, Phiron thought. And that’s cutting it fine. Perhaps too fine. Perhaps I should have insisted on more. He has the whole of the Tanis treasury to draw on now, if Artaka has truly declared for him. He could fit half the Macht in his pocket if he chose.

Phiron turned away from his perusal of the harbour, in which were moored his one hundred and seventeen ships. Like a forest, their masts were so thick together that from the quays they withheld the sunrise. There was no room for them all along the wharves, so dozens had moored out in the shelter of the harbour moles, made fast to bladder-buoyed ropes at bow and stern. These were the lighter ones, the troop-carriers. Made fast to the stone of the docks were the heavy, wide-bellied transports, with hatches in their sides so that animals might be walked aboard, two by two.

These ships represented the seagoing craft of several nations. Such a fleet had never been gathered all in one port before. Even the entire war-navy of the Great King mustered at most some two hundred vessels, and they were scattered in deep-water bases up and down the Tanean, the greatest of these the naval yards at Ochos and Antikauros.

It must happen now, Phiron thought, pacing the marble chamber. Things have gone too far for him to turn back; it is open treason. Either he takes the throne, or dies trying.

And we alongside him.

The room was warm with the heat of lamps and a wide-mouthed brazier stacked with charcoal. Phiron had been pacing up and down within it for the turn of a water-clock, the hobnails on his sandals doing little good to the mosaic of the floor. Periodically he broke off his wandering to stare off the balcony again, resting his big-knuckled fists on the balustrade. They built with pale, honey-coloured stone here. It made Sinon look warm in the flitting scraps of winter sunshine that came and went. Sandstone, he supposed, the colour of the beach at Hal Goshen in summer. Phiron had not seen a Macht city built out of the dark Harukush granite for going on five years. His home had been Sinon and the Sea. He had learned the high Kefren speech which was spoken at the Great King’s court, and in the stews of the docklands he cursed and bragged in common Asurian, the tongue that carried a man across the civilized world. His friends were sea-captains and merchants and brothel-keepers and lost soldiers like himself. He had been a man of note once, a centurion to whom his peers deferred. Once, he had led ten centons through the hinterland of Machran, and they had been employed by no one. He had meant to take a city for himself, no less, and become one of the great folk of his world. That had ended in defeat and exile.

And so here he was; a conduit between two worlds. For once in his life, he mused, he truly had been in the right place at the right time. And now the months of intrigue and furtive meetings and go-betweens were over.

The tall double doors of the room swung open on hinges of oiled brass. Two household slaves stood there in sable and yellow robes, heads bowed so that their top-knots fell forward. They were Juthan, as were so many of the personal slaves of the Kefren. Grey-skinned, with yellow eyes and blue-black hair, each was broader than the brawniest of Macht warriors, but shorter by the span of three hands. Phiron knew the stories of the Juthan rebellions. Meek though these pair might look, their people were among the most stubborn fighters of the Kufr, and had risen up against the Empire again and again. After their last, abortive uprising, half their population had been exiled to the far east of the world, to Yue and Irgun, where they toiled in the mines of the Adranos Mountains. That was a generation ago. He wondered if the Juthan had the heart to play at this latest adventure.

All this passed through his mind in a second. Phiron was a tall man, whose father had been from the Inner Mountains of the Harukush. He had taken his father’s pale eyes, but his mother’s dark colouring. He wore the scarlet mercenary cloak as a nobleman ought, draped over his left arm. Beneath it, the black shadow of Antimone’s Gift armoured his torso, giving back none of the light from the wall-sconces and the brazier.

Two more figures glided into the room, and behind them the Juthan attendants closed the double doors with a soft boom. Phiron bowed deeply, speaking in Kefren as correct as he could contrive. “My lord,” he said. “I am honoured. Lady, I hope I see you well.” He straightened, heart beating faster despite himself. Face to face at last.

The foremost figure towered over Phiron, topping him by the length of a man’s forearm. It had a large, equine face, with human features, but the shape and size and colouring of these were like nothing any human ever possessed. The eyes were leaf-shaped, with long, amber lashes. The iris was a pale violet with no discernable pupil.

The nose was long, narrow, aquiline, the mouth below it small, turning down at the corners. The whole face seemed elongated, with an immensely high forehead from which the rufous hair had been braided back in knots topped with gold beads. The figure’s skin was a pale gold, enhanced by the light of the lamps. This darkened around the eye-sockets and about the nostrils, and in the hollow of the temples became a pale blue.

“Phiron,” the thing said, and it had a voice of which any actor would be envious, deep as the peal of a bronze bell. “And so we meet.”

This was Arkamenes, High Prince of the Asurian Empire, brother to the Great King himself. This was a Kefre, the high race of Kuf. This was one of the rulers of the world.

Behind Arkamenes was a smaller shape, with feminine curves emphasised by a close-fitting robe of lapis lazuli. Slender as a willow, this creature was veiled, only the eyes to be seen, and these were a warm brown, brown as mountain wine. The lashes about them were black, and had been drawn out with some cosmetic.

Arkamenes saw Phiron’s quick, interrogative glance and smiled. “The lady Tiryn is as close as a wife to me. We may speak without fear.”

Phiron bowed again. He was counted a handsome man, well-made and not without grace, but in the company of these two creatures he seemed a thing made out of ungainly leather and iron, stocky and solid, a rook in the company of swans. He was about to speak, but Arkamenes clapped his long, gold-skinned hands, the nails painted lilac. The doors opened again and the two Juthan bowed deep.

“Something to sustain our spirits. And quickly now.”

With great speed but no haste small tables were set up, and upon them were set trays of sweetmeats and flasks of silver and glass. On a stand to one side a crystal basin of steaming water was placed with a click, and linen towels. The Juthan left again, the doors were shut, and the smell of the food brought water to Phiron’s mouth. His breakfast had been army bread at the break of dawn, and a mug of black wine.

Arkamenes opened his arms in a gesture of inclusion. “You must forgive our squalor, but these apartments were the best the city had to offer. And we are being discreet, I believe. Even now, discretion is still called for. Tiryn, pour the general some wine. We will stand at the window, and look down on our ships.”

A momentary shock, like some frisson of life, as the female’s hand touched his, settled within his fingers a warm, smoking glass. He met her eyes for a second; she, too, was taller than he. The eyes were full of life, but closed off. Like a locked door with sounds of lovemaking behind it.

Phiron sipped his hot wine, savouring the warmth, rolling it around his tongue.

“So the fleet has assembled,” Arkamenes said, his own cup untouched. “Are they enough? Can it be done in one voyage?”

“Yes, barely. Some of the baggage animals will have to be left behind, but we can make good those losses in Tanis.”