Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

The impact came from the side and sent Geder tumbling out of the path of the charge. In the moonlight, the brown robe looked like a paler shade of night. The priest stood before the attacker with no time to so much as dodge.

“Basrahip!” Geder screamed, realizing as he did that it wasn’t the high priest, but one of the new initiates. The blade came down, taking the new priest in the jaw and spinning his body as he fell. Blood spattered horse and rider, and the swordsman leaped from his saddle toward Geder. The moonlight shone on tight bronze scales.

A Jasuru. Geder felt a stab of confusion and outrage. Why would a Jasuru want to hurt him? He’d only made war on Timzinae. He fumbled for his sword.

The Jasuru stopped and clutched at his eye. Behind them, the horse he had been riding began to scream and kick. Geder’s sword-and-bows arrived at last, pressing themselves between Geder and his attacker, but the Jasuru had dropped his sword and started clawing at his eyes. He couldn’t be certain, but Geder thought there was blood on the man’s fingers. The black horse screamed again, bucked, and ran madly away into the night.

“Stand away,” Basrahip said. “Do not approach. The hand of the goddess is upon him now.”

“Fuck,” one of the soldiers at Geder’s side said. “Can she do that?”

The Jasuru fell to his knees and began to scream low in his throat. He thrashed, clawing at his arms and neck. Geder looked around. His personal guard had pulled one of the other riders from the saddle and were savaging him. The other seemed to have fled. Basrahip stood at Geder’s side, the one remaining initiate behind him. The Jasuru screamed again. Basrahip raised his hands and walked toward the screaming man.

“You feel the hand of the goddess, sinner,” Basrahip said. “Your days of lies are ended. Say now, who sent you?”

“Get them off of me!” the Jasuru howled. “Please God, get them out of me!”

“You have no hope but me,” Basrahip said. “Listen to my voice. You have no hope but me. Who sent you?”

The Jasuru collapsed to the ground, and Geder thought for a moment that he’d died. Then, weakly, his voice came.

“Callon. Callon Cane.”

Basrahip turned back. His eyes met Geder’s, and Geder shrugged. The name was nothing to him.

“Who is Callon Cane?”

“For God’s sake, kill me. Kill me.”

“I am your only hope of peace. Who is Callon Cane?”

“He’s some rich bastard in Herez. Put a price on the Lord Regent’s head. Me and Siph and Lachor found a mess of angry Timzinae ready to help us if we made the try. Thought if we hit fast—Oh God . They’re in me. They’re under my skin! Kill me! Please, by all that’s holy, kill me !”

“No,” Basrahip said. “That will not happen. The hand of the goddess is upon you now.”

The Jasuru screamed, his body arching until only his toes and the top of his head were touching the ground. Basrahip turned back to Geder.

“You must not approach him, Prince Geder. You and your men should return to your places. There is no danger now.”

Geder felt a wash of relief, but he didn’t sheathe his sword.

“What happened to him?”

“The hand of the goddess is upon him,” Basrahip said. “He is our brother now. We will care for him as we would any initiate to her truth.”

Geder’s jaw dropped.

“Are you serious? Basrahip, he just tried to kill me.”

“The goddess is upon him. He will not rebel again.” The Jasuru screamed again and kept on screaming, barely pausing to catch his breath. Basrahip put a wide hand on Geder’s shoulder. “The lies and sin are being burned out of him. It will take time, but he will become holy or he will die.”

“You’re sure about this?” Geder asked.

“I am certain.”

“Well. All right,” Geder said. “But this won’t make it easier to sleep.”

Suddapal was a strangely diffuse city. It had no wall, no defenses. Not even a solid marker to say where the city began. Shacks and low buildings became a bit more frequent. Paths crossed the wider track that Geder and his men had been following. And mile by mile Suddapal grew up around them. The spot where Fallon Broot and his men waited to greet him wasn’t particularly different from any other, but they made it the edge of Suddapal by their presence. Geder gave the order to sound the halt and climbed down from his carriage.

Fallon Broot looked older than the months since he’d left with the invading army could explain. His face seemed pinched, his skin an unhealthy color. Geder felt a rush of sympathy for him. Broot was a decent man, and well-meaning, but possibly not suited for the burdens of authority.

“Lord Regent,” Broot said, dropping from his saddle into a deep bow. “Welcome to your city.”

Geder grinned. “You don’t need to bow to me, Broot. We’ve known each other long enough we can afford a little informality, don’t you think?”

Broot’s smile was sickly. “Good of you, my lord.”

“I don’t want any feasts,” Geder said, setting off deeper into the city at a walk. Broot followed, and Geder’s personal guard behind them. “I’m not here to take control of anything. It’s more private business. You understand.”

“Of course, Lord Regent,” Broot said.

“All going well in the city, I hope?”

“Some troubles,” Broot said. “Nothing desperate so far. We’ve … ah. Well, we’ve found some evidence of a group that was spiriting Timzinae away.”

“What do you mean away ?”

“Hide them on ships. Sneak them into caravans. Away.”

That wasn’t good. It was almost certain that any of the people central to the conspiracy against him would have been the first to escape. They were, after all, the ones with the most power. The most connections. They’d been able to corrupt Lord Ternigan and Dawson Kalliam. These were a dangerous people.

They reached a corner, and Geder paused, letting Broot show him the way, only instead the man stopped, laced his hands behind his back, and faced Geder like he was sizing up his executioner. Between the gravity of his demeanor and his lush mustache, Geder couldn’t help thinking he looked vaguely comedic.

“Have you broken the conspiracy?” Geder asked.

“In a manner of speaking. We’ve reason to believe it’s not operating any longer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’ve had several people confess to the minister you sent us that they were brought into a group for this purpose by Isadau rol Ennanamet, voice of the Medean bank in Suddapal. And a Timzinae.”

“Hmm,” Geder said. “What does Cithrin say about it?”

“Cithrin bel Sarcour, you mean? She doesn’t say much, my lord. She fled the city last night along with all her people.”

Geder smiled and shook his head. Broot had spoken, but something must have distracted Geder. He hadn’t heard the words.

“Well, where’s the bank? We can go there now.”

“She’s not there, my lord. She and her guards and what was left of her staff got on a boat last night. They’re gone.”

Something cold was happening in Geder’s chest. Some kind of thickening. He hoped he wasn’t getting sick.

“No,” he said. “That didn’t happen. She knew I was coming. I wrote to her.”

“That’s as may be. But what I’m telling you is the woman left the city. She and the old magistra before her were shuffling Timzinae out of the city right under our noses. And with your grant of immunity,” Broot said, an angry buzz coming into his voice, “there wasn’t anything we could do to stop her.”

The meaning sank in, and the coldness in Geder’s chest detonated. For a moment, he couldn’t hear. Then he was standing in the street, his fist hurting badly, and Fallon Broot was on the ground with blood flowing down his mustache and shocked expression.