Down to the Sea

ELEVEN

“What is it, Sean?”

Ashamed that she had caught him thus, he slipped out of the bed and retreated to the small veranda attached to their bedroom in the palace of Hazin.

Slipping on a light robe, Karinia came out to join him. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, “I woke up, and it sounded like you were crying.”

He lowered his head, covering his eyes with his hands. “Nothing,” he whispered. “A bad dream, that’s all.”

“Tell me about it.” She sat down beside him, hands lightly touching his shoulders, rubbing them.

“My mother. I dreamed she was still alive, back in Roum. She asked me why I had done what I have.”

“Done what?”

“Stayed here,” and he uncovered his face.

Ever so gently she touched the tears on his cheeks as if they were some strange curiosity she had never experienced before. She touched a teardrop on her fingertip to her lips.

“And my father, yelling drunkenly. Funny, that’s one of the few memories I have of him from when I was a boy. Him drunk.”

“Did he hit your mother?”

“No. He was never like that. A good-natured mick, they called him. He’d laugh too loudly, always with some of his friends from the army when he came to Roum. He’d give me some present, then have the servants shoo me off to bed. In the morning he’d be gone and my mother would cry for days afterward. He was with her in the dream, asking me the same thing.”

“You regret staying?”

He looked over at her and forced a smile. “For you? No, of course not.”

He let his fingers lightly trace the line of her jaw. His hand cupped her cheek for a second, then fell away. He stood up, leaning over the railing. Below was the main courtyard of the temple. In this, the hour before dawn, initiates of the first order, Kazan and human, were dimly visible, lying on the flagstone pavement with arms spread wide. At dusk they had drunk of the holy waters, and even now they drifted in their visions. Occasionally one would moan softly.

Guards paced back and forth between the rows. Several of the bodies were completely still, blood splattered around them, their heads neatly laid to one side. Even as he watched, one of them, caught in a horrible vision, began to stand up, crying out. He was dead within seconds, body collapsing, spraying blood. He had failed, falling victim to the inner terror. He had not learned stillness in the face of fear.

“Ghastly in its power,” Sean whispered.

“The first thing you learn,” Karinia replied. “Weakness is the destroyer.”

He stepped back from the spectacle below, looking over at her. “My tears were weakness.”

She smiled. “No. Just love.” She moved into his arms. “I vaguely remember my mother,” she whispered. “My father, any of our fathers, none of us know. He is simply selected, then is gone.”

“Were you selected for me?” Sean asked.

She slipped from his embrace, returning to the bed, beckoning for him to follow, which he did.

As he lay down beside her, she lightly traced a fingertip across his chest. “Yes, I was selected.”

He pulled back slightly and sat up.

“Don’t be angry. Consider it an honor, my love. It was Hazin who told me to go to you. I obeyed, but after I met you the obedience became pleasure.”

He shook his head. “It makes it seem false.”

“Why? Because that is not how it is done in your old world?”

He nodded.

“Hazin wanted you for the Order. There is nothing wrong in that. If not for that, you would be dead now.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What, then?”

“Arranged like that.”

“Don’t they do that where you come from? The Chin still arrange marriages, don’t they?”

“How do you know that?”

She smiled. “I just know. Consider it an honor conferred by Hazin. You are not of us, yet he wishes your blood to be joined with us. I should have been destined for someone pure, of ten generations or more, but he chose you. That indicates his regard.”

Sean looked over at her, not sure how to react. She seemed a dream of perfection, yet beneath the softness of her light olive skin, she had a strength that at times, in moments of passion, seemed capable of overwhelming him.

She was not the first woman he had been with. There had been Svetlana, one of the girls at the Roaring Mouse, and even Lavinia back in Roum, who, at age eighteen, he had at times thought of in terms far more than passion. He had made her vague promises about finishing the academy and his first tour of duty, at which point the military freed him and would allow him to marry. He wondered where Lavinia was now, if she mourned him, if she still cared or had already forgotten him with someone else.

The way I’ve forgotten her, he thought. He looked over at Karinia. She was different, and he wondered if in some way she was not even quite human.

Yet that was indeed what had convinced him to stay. It was not the visions given to him by Hazin, the cunning and oh so persuasive arguments of the inevitability of history on this world, or even the quest to find a Portal and thereby reach the power of the stars. No, it was the raw, primal power of this race the Kazan were breeding. They were the inevitable culmination of man, and once unleashed, nothing, and especially the Republic, with all its turmoil and teeming, foolish voices, could stand against them.

“My mother, in the dream, she said something.”

“What?”

“That I was a traitor.”

Karinia laughed softly. “To whom? Yourself, your country?”

He nodded.

“Rather, it is your Republic that would betray you. We understand a thousand centuries of history, Sean. This world is the old world of the Kazan, of their barbarian cousins who once rode the northern continent. From here they leapt to the stars, subjugated a hundred worlds, and then came the Great Falling, the casting down and twenty thousand years of darkness.

“The Portals are the key to everything. All were dead here, annihilated, and then the Portals somehow opened, the gate between worlds. A few came from one world, and then another. Their descendants multiplied, but understood nothing of before.

“Our race. Our race somehow was on more than one world as well.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“Didn’t he tell you that?”

He shook his head.

“The-world your father came from, the world that those who lived under the northern hordes came from, it is the same place. Perhaps the ancients of the Kazan made a gate there, perhaps several, and took ancestors of yours from long ago. There was another Portal here, in the realm of the Kazan, that is where my blood comes from. It was this order, then, who decided to make the blood pure, to recreate us.”

“I understand how,” Sean said softly, almost fearfully, as if someone was listening. “I do not understand why.”

“You will, when Hazin decides it. Sufficient to know that what he offers is the only alternative. Both races united, both races pure. Your Republic could never achieve that, and you know it. We are the future of this world, not the Republic.”

He nodded. That he knew was true. Man against man there was no question. The Kazan, all the Hordes, were bigger and far more powerful physically, but in battle that size had its drawbacks. They moved slower, and the northern hordes lacked the technical skills. The Kazan had those skills, but when it came to lightning speed and sustained physical endurance, humans had the edge. The Shiv combined a physical presence and power that was terrifying. A power that could unite the two races to one purpose was indeed unstoppable.

“And if you could control it,” she replied, again her fingertips tracing his arm and then his shoulders, “would you turn it against Hazin?”

He looked at her, wide-eyed.

“The truth.”

“I am nothing to the Shiv. In battle,” he paused, still shocked by what she had told him only the evening before, “in the arena that you told me about, any one of them could crush me.”

“That’s not what Hazin wants of you. He has a hundred thousand who can crush. They, almost all of us, are trained to nothing else. To think like your opponent, to understand them, that is what he wants from you. You can be the face that those of the Republic will see, will rally to.

“There is nothing but power. All else is meaningless. And when life ends, it ends. Thus morality is a charade to dupe the foolish.”

“The god of the Shiv?” he asked.

She laughed. “A legend for the initiates, for those who need such things. Those of the inner circles know that nothing exists beyond this life. Therefore it is power, my lover, power and nothing else that matters and that drives the game of our lives.” She smiled. “And that power then gives us the pleasures we desire.”

He wanted to pull back from her, but even as she spoke, the look in her eyes drew him in, her touch feeling like fire. “Do you know why your father was as he was?”

“No, I wondered that often as a child. My mother was beautiful, educated, and she loved him. He threw all that away.”

“It’s because he was drunk not with liquor, but with the memory of power. He commanded armies. He crushed his enemies and saw them driven before him. He knew triumph like few have ever known. And then it ended and he had nothing but memories.

“Could such a man ever settle down, sit in the corner of a room and watch the days drift into a blur, to lie with but one woman until they grew old and died? Believe me, Sean, once the elixir of power has been drunk, it will haunt you.

Forever after your life is divided between all that happened when you held it, and then all that came afterward, when each day is spent remembering rather than gazing toward what still lies ahead.

“That is what Hazin offers you. What I offer you.”

“And if I turned away, would you turn away from me?” She smiled softly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I love you,” he whispered. “And fear you. Fear that you would leave me.”

“Ah, so I would haunt you forever afterward. Sean O’Donald, you know how to compliment.”

“And my power, what of it? Would it haunt you?”

“What you could be if you but allowed it. Hazin saw that in you and in your foolish friend.”

“You are not answering the question I asked.”

“Nor will I, lover. I must keep at least one secret from you.” She smiled. “It is, after all, part of the game that all lovers play with each other.”

He slowly nodded.

“Today you will see the Shiv in a new way. When you watch them, consider what it would mean to lead them in battle. Your father’s successes will pale to insignificance when compared to what you could do.”

She gently pulled him back down by her side and drew him close.

“Do you love me?” Sean asked, and he was ashamed that his voice betrayed his fears.

She kissed him gently.

“Here, at this moment when it is just the two of us alone. Yes, I do,” she whispered.

The blaring of the trumpets was an annoyance Hazin was forced to accept. He just wished that they didn’t have to stand directly behind the imperial box.

The fanfare echoed around the great amphitheater, the brazen call of the nargas, the war trumpets joining in. A hundred thousand came to their feet, clenched fists raised to the emperor as he came out of the shadows of the entry corridor and stepped into the light.

A thunderous cheer erupted and redoubled as he raised his hand in salute.

Hazin stood at the back of the imperial box, just behind those of the inner blood, the eunuch chamberlains, the royal attendants of the chamber, and the chosen concubines of the moment. He preferred this spot. It allowed him to watch without being watched.

While the emperor stood, accepting the adulation of the mob, his guards stood warily to either side. One of them examined the royal chair, expert hands running across the cushions to check one last time for a hidden needle or pressure detonator. He stepped back, gave a subtle nod of approval, and the emperor sat down.

It was the day of celebration of the ascension to the throne, and since dawn the city had been a madhouse. Free food, from ten thousand human sacrifices butchered since midnight, had been distributed to the mob, and the feasting had gone on for hours. A thousand barrels of drink laced with mild doses of gava had been set up at nearly every street comer, thus inflaming the passions of all.

The crowd in the arena, the lucky hundred thousand who could cram their way in, were wild in anticipation for what was to come. The all-night revelry and now the promise of the show had stilled the few voices that had questioned the surprise announcement of a new war to be fought in the North.

Those who were to entertain stepped out from the archway beneath the emperor’s box, and the cheering redoubled as they paraded around the perimeter of the arena. All of them were of the Shiv, armed with swords and a variety of exotic weapons: throwing daggers, curved scimitars, poisoned spokes, bows, even modern rifles.

The parade circled and reentered the archway. There was a moment of silent expectation, followed by a renewed roar as the first fighters came out. Stripped naked except for a loincloth, they bore the traditional short swords, which harkened back to the days long before the Shiv, when human slaves were selected to fight over the body of their master. The fallen then served as their servants in paradise.

A dozen fighters formed a circle, evenly spaced like spokes on a wheel, their blades ceremonially pointed to the center. All turned to look at the emperor, who gave a nod.

The action exploded. Several banded together, others stood alone, others turned to rush upon an opponent to the left or right. Within seconds the first man was down, clutching at his bowels as they spilled out. His victor didn’t bother to deliver the coup de grace but instead raced off. Cheers went up as the wounded man, one hand holding his guts, threw his sword, catching his opponent in the back and sending him sprawling.

The knot of three who had joined together systematically maneuvered as one, taking down three men in quick succession, until they encountered two others who had banded together.

The disemboweled fighter retrieved his sword and waded into the melee, taking the leg off an opponent before falling to a decapitating blow, his death triggering scattered cries of sympathy.

The three were down to two, but in so doing had defeated the others. In an instant the last two turned on each other. The one swung a split second faster than his former companion, neatly taking his head off with a single blow. The fight had lasted barely longer than a minute.

Applause broke out. Some of the patrons rushed to the galleries below to collect their winnings from the money dealers, for each of the fighters had been numbered and bets had been placed on the order of their death or who would survive.

As ritual demanded, the lone warrior approached the box, saluted and then fell upon his own blade, choosing the slow method of cutting into his stomach rather than through the chest or throat. It took several minutes for him to die. He didn’t utter a sound. His eyes gazed straight ahead, facial muscles barely twitching as he cut across his stomach, and then finally drove the blade up through his own diaphragm and into his heart.

As he collapsed, an ovation erupted. The emperor looked back over his shoulder at Hazin and nodded, a gesture all of course would see.

At the far side of the arena two more Shiv had been led out and tied to stakes. Their ordeal would, if properly conducted, last until midday. Neither cried out or even flinched as the inflictors of the Test laid out their tools, knives, pliers, pincers, and hot braziers filled with glowing coals.

One of the two set directly to work, gouging out the eye of his subject with a stilettolike blade, holding the orb up before his victim, then crushing it between his fingers. The other was more subtle, a blade heated to a glowing white, lightly flicking against bound fingertips, lips, then drawn slowly across the stomach so that the smoke curled up.

Gasps of approval echoed as the two who were bound did not move.

Hazin stood up and withdrew from the imperial box, going to the section of the arena where those of his order sat. He spotted who he wanted and sat down by his side.

O’Donald’s features were pale, his eyes wide with horror.

“Do not show revulsion,” Hazin whispered in English. “Do that and you will forever lose face and any hope of survival.”

“Merciful God, what in hell are you people doing?” Sean gasped.

“First, there is no god, and if there was, what is happening here proves he is without mercy. It is entertainment, but also a lesson.”

“Entertainment? Torturing people?”

“There are two things neither your species nor mine can resist watching. The first is the act of love, the second the act of annihilation. Curious, don’t you think?”

A gasp went up from the audience. The second torturer, after long minutes of subtle play, had gone for the cruelest of cuts and now stepped back so that all could see the results. His victim lowered his head and then let out a shuddering sob of agony.

His cry triggered an eruption of loud cries of derision and jeering taunts. Even those of the Order rose to their feet, though they remained silent. Most of them turned their backs to the arena floor in a show of contempt for the victim.

The first torturer, whose victim had yet to cry out, finished his subject within seconds, driving a blade up under the jaw and straight into his brain until he slumped over. Freed from his task, he now joined his companion. The two threw themselves into a frenzy of mutilation. Their victim’s shrieks were tauntingly echoed by the mob.

Sean lowered his head and gagged.

“Watch it,” Hazin hissed.

Sean looked up at him, features drawn.

“Watch it.”

“Why? What in hell is this?”

“It is the ritual. Those of the Shiv down there are selected to die as a demonstration of their strength, of their devotion to the emperor. Every man you saw in the parade will die this day. The question is how they will die. What you are seeing is power, O’Donald. That they face pain unflinchingly, that they go to their deaths without a murmur of complaint, is what they have been trained for. Most of them see it as an honor to die thus. They have been allowed to breed. They know their sons and daughters will be told of their glory, and thus the next generation is strengthened yet more.”

The shrieking of the dying man was all but drowned out by the cries of derision from the crowd.

“That one’s children, however, will have their throats cut within the hour, and his consort will be the one who does it. His seed will be extinguished, his immortality denied. Listen to his cries of pain, O’Donald. That is the real agony, not what they are doing to his flesh, but rather what they are doing to his soul. He let weakness show just for an instant, and his soul is now condemned forever.”

Sean looked at him wide-eyed, and Hazin smiled.

“And yet you just said there is no God,” O’Donald whispered.

“I know that, I have allowed you to know that, but the lower orders? I give them something to believe in, to die for. I cannot lead a holy war and promise nothing to those who die. Instead, I want them to rush to their deaths gladly, believing, as the others who just died down there believed, that it is but a flicker of pain that will be followed by the fulfillment of every desire imagined, forever. The garden, O’Donald, that is the pleasure they aspire to.

“Imagine such power. What could a hundred thousand of these men, believing that, do against anything the Republic could put in the field?

“It is too bad your friend Cromwell fled. I must admit that I actually liked him. He did not quite have your frightfully cold intellect. Instead, it was his spirit, to lead, to fight, which appealed to me. If I could have but convinced him, what a commander he might have made.”

Even as the torture continued, another act came forward, a demonstration of poisons. Subjects were tied to stakes, and a priest of the third order cut each man with a dagger.

Leather-voiced announcers explained to the audience the type of poison on each blade, its effects, the pain produced. Some were poisons that acted quickly, the victims barely convulsing before gone. Others were poisons of vengeance, designed to produce unspeakable agony and dread. The crowd watched fascinated, as one of the victims writhed convulsively, white foam dripping from his mouth.

Hazin could see that O’Donald was slowly being drawn in, repulsed and yet fascinated, unable to look away no matter how he wished to. He knew as well that though the crowd was fascinated, they were also terrified, for such poisons were known to be reserved for special enemies of the Order. The captain of Yasim’s guard of the Green Gate had tasted one just last night, for Hazin’s original decision to be merciful had been replaced with one that inflicted several hours of agony before death.

“The writer Vasiva described these games five hundred years ago,” Hazin whispered, drawing closer to O’Donald, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “He wrote of a man of supposed virtue by the name of Sutona, of the school of self-deniers, who believed that pleasure must be controlled and moderated, and who denounced these spectacles. Vasiva challenged him, declaring that this supposed man of virtue was a hypocrite, for he denounced that which he had never seen. Sutona went to the spectacle with Vasiva, and do you know what happened?”

O’Donald looked away from the dying man and slowly nodded.

Hazin smiled. “Yes. He became addicted. Within the hour he was racing to the money changers to make his bets, and he lost all his fortune by the end of the day.”

Hazin laughed and shook his head. “Understand it without passion, without judging, with the realism to see into the hearts of your race and mine, O’Donald, and to thus see them for what they truly are. But do not let it control you. That is the secret.”

He could see that the gava that Karinia had dosed O’Donald’s morning meal with was taking effect. His eyes were becoming glazed, breath coming more rapidly. The drug was seductive, subtle. The receiver was never really aware of its onset.

Even as he spoke, O’Donald’s gaze was drifting away from Hazin, looking back at the show. The man being tortured with knives and hot irons had dissolved into incoherent babbling. The crowd, growing bored with the mewing cries, were taunting the torturers now.

From under the emperor’s arch more combatants emerged. These were matched pairs, fighting with identical weapons in. tests of skill and cunning. Though all the fighters moved with lightning-like speed, the crowd fixated on one pair in particular. Both of them were armed with two razor-sharp double-edged blades, which were indistinct blurs, flashing in the sunlight as they danced, weaved, parried, and thrusted.

Two others fought barehanded, coming together for an instant, slashing blows exchanging, then leaping apart, warily circling before closing again. Karinia, who sat on the other side of O’Donald, was lightly toying with him, brushing his hair, kissing him on the cheek, whispering something, and he smiled, nodding, his attention still fixed on the fights, drawing in his breath when one of the knife fighters made a cunning backhanded sweep, cutting his opponent’s throat. The dying man, however, leapt forward, even as blood fountained like a geyser, driving his blade into his opponent’s chest. The mob erupted with a roar of approval for the double kill. Both of the men drew apart and amazingly stood erect, struggling to bow to the emperor before they collapsed. Their gesture brought the crowd to its feet in an ovation.

The last of the matched pair died. This bare-handed fighter had broken the back of his opponent, leaving him to thrash about. Picking up a blade from the knife fighters, he then disemboweled himself.

O’Donald rose to his feet, mouth open.

“Watch what comes next,” Hazin whispered. “It is a more practical demonstration.

A line of men, dressed in the black battle fatigues of the Shiv, rushed out from under the arch, carrying no weapon other than bayonets. From another archway at the east end of the arena a team of two men came out carrying between them a gatling gun mounted on a tripod. They were not wearing the black uniform of the Order, but instead were dressed in the blue jacket and khaki of the Republic. They set their weapon in place as the twenty fighters went to the west end of the arena and spread out into a line. Those in the stands behind them scattered in every direction, jumping into entryways, fleeing like a receding wave. Roars of laughter erupted from the rest of the crowd. In front of the emperor’s box, guards set up what appeared to be heavy sheets of glass, slipping them into place around the imperial chair.

The twenty saluted, holding bayonets high. Out in the middle of the arena, the torturers and the poisoners took off, running for cover.

The gatling opened up. The twenty rushed forward with a wild cry: “Shiv! Shiv! Shiv!”

They had gone barely a dozen feet before the first was bowled over, the gunners swinging their piece, to try and stitch up the line. The men around the first to fall went down, hugging the packed sand. Others farther out continued their rush.

The gunners quickly shifted, catching several on the left flank. A few high rounds plowed into the stands above them, triggering pandemonium. Those in the middle were already back on their feet, one of them picking up the body of the first fallen, holding it in front like a shield even as he ran.

The gunners desperately played their fire back and forth. But as they focused on one flank, the other flank, or the middle, sprang up, crouching low, sprinting forward. Three made a desperate rush, racing along the edge of the wall under the emperor’s box and then straight in while the gunners tried to finish off the other flank.

O’Donald, still standing, began to shout, cheering the attackers on. At the very last instant the gunner swung his barrel around, dropping all but the last man, who had been running behind the other two. He leapt over the fallen even as he was hit, and flung himself onto the gun, knocking it over. The assistant gunner, with drawn revolver, shot the man in the head. But the gun was momentarily down.

The surviving attackers charged forward with wild cries. The gunner and his assistant struggled to right the piece. The distance closed, only feet separating the lead attacker from the gun.

The gatling stuttered to life, slicing across the closest man. He staggered, came to a stop, and then stood there for several long seconds, legs braced to the ground like oak trees, shuddering, flinching as each round hit, but continuing to absorb the blows.

The assistant gunner stepped around to one side, leveling his revolver, putting a round straight into the man’s head. The bullet finally caused him to collapse, but it was too late. The half dozen survivors surged at them, the next man in carrying the body of a comrade as a shield.

The assistant gunner emptied his weapon, dropping two more while the gunner continued to fire, rounds exploding into the shield of flesh. The attacker closed, flinging the body onto the gun, knocking it over again. The final rounds arced up into the audience as the gun fell, and then he was in with bayonet held high.

The arena roared in a mad frenzy, and O’Donald was part of the insanity, the lust for blood and for killing, screaming as bayonets flashed, rose and fell, rose and fell.

A lone attacker staggered to his feet, holding a bloody knife aloft, and even those of the Order erupted into applause.

“Who were you cheering for?” Karinia asked, still hanging on O’Donald’s arm.

Sean, eyes glazed, look over at her. “For those who would win,” he said, voice choked.

Hazin left him, drifting back down to the imperial box. The emperor was on his feet, hand held up in salute as the lone survivor, gasping for breath, stepped to the middle of the arena. The man held his blade aloft in salute and in a gesture so rare as to be remembered years afterward, the emperor extended his hand, palm up, a sign that the man was not to take his life.

“You will need such leaders when this is for real,” the emperor said, looking over at Hazin.

Hazin said nothing, sensing yet again the game within the game. It was he, after all, as the Grand Master, who selected those who were to be sacrificed on the sand. The survivor had been one loyal to the last Grand Master. Now he held a potential that was unknown, a supporter of an opponent whose name would be spoken of throughout the city this night, who would be greeted by his brothers as one returned from the dead in glory. He was fetahid, one who has returned, and to try and take him another way would be folly.

There would be time enough later, Hazin thought, wondering which of his rivals within the Order would see this human as a possible tool to be turned to advantage.

The battle was the climax of the morning’s show. Next would come the tedious routine of executions of criminals of Kazan blood, something the baser elements of the crowd enjoyed, especially when a notorious case was at last brought to justice, but nowhere near as exciting as watching humans slaughter one another.

The counters of the dead were busy at work, dragging the bodies off, down through the northern gate, the gate of the dead. Below, the bidders waited. The more dramatic the death, the higher the price would go, the winners dragging off their prizes as a trophy of prestige for the evening’s feast.

The emperor, yawning, a display to indicate his boredom with the tedious bloodletting to come, stood up and left his box. He motioned for Hazin to follow.

Withdrawing under the shadow of the entry arch, the emperor followed his guards down the corridor and turned into a private chamber, a comfortable hideaway where the imperial presence could relax or amuse himself. The guards closed the door behind them.

“Quite a show. Who was the human that survived?”

“Just one of my Shiv. A commander of a thousand.”

“Hmm, seems a waste to throw such training and skill into the arena. Any particular reason?”

“A hundred are chosen to die each month, and all volunteer for the honor.”

“Still, I do wonder how it is they are chosen.”

Hazin smiled, but was silent.

“A good way to cleanse. No matter what you claim of your breeding and training, surely they must desire to live.”

“Those that desire it too much find themselves on the sand,” Hazin replied. “It is a lesson for all to ponder. Even you and I shall face that someday.”

The emperor, who had pouring himself a drink, turned, obviously wondering what was the veiled meaning of Hazin’s words.

“Nothing intended, Your Highness. Just an observation.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about the escape.”

“Escape of whom?”

“The captured human. How did it happen?”

Sooner or later he knew that an imperial spy would find out. Cromwell had flown low over the harbor. The plane had to have been spotted and questions raised.

“As all escapes do. He found an opportunity and fled. Those who were at fault paid. You watched several of them die today, those tied to the posts for poisonings.”

“So all of them have been punished.”

“But of course.”

“Hmm.” He sipped his drink, eyes half closed, warily gazing at Hazin. “I take it all is in readiness for departure.” Hazin nodded. “You should know that from your fleet commanders. All ships of the Red Banner designated for the attack are to sail within seven days. The assault transports for the Shiv will follow a day later. Fifty thousand men. As long as your ships fulfill their tasks, in three weeks the Shiv will land on the Bantag coast. One umen will support the assault on their main port, called Constantine. Eight supply ships will carry additional arms for the Bantag.

“I am not comfortable with committing my land cruisers to that attack. It leaves my reserves here dangerously thin.”

“From what threat, sire? Any potential rival sees what can be gained there. The fiefdoms carved out will be vaster than all of Kazan. Why run the risk of engaging in a fight against you when such power and wealth can be had simply for going along with this attack?”

The emperor put down his drink and drew closer to Hazin. “What is your game, Grand Master?”

“Sire?”

The emperor smiled. “There is a game within this game. Your arguments for attacking the Republic are simple enough on the surface. They are a growing threat, and it is better to slay the cub in its cradle than wait for it to be full-grown. The wealth in resources to be taken, the diversion of my fractious cousins, all of it seems simple enough, but with you there has to be more.”

“I have all I desire already, sire. You ensured that when you supported me against the last Grand Master, who threatened both of us. There is nothing else.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Hazin stiffened, stepping back a pace. He stared straight into the emperor’s eyes, and the imperial gaze dropped.

“Do not interpret what I said the wrong way, Grand Master.”

“Of course not, Your Highness. I never interpret anything the wrong way.”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“I assume you are going with this expedition.”

“Sire?”

“Just that. It is, after all, the greatest effort in the field your order has attempted. I assumed you were going.” Hazin was silent.

“In fact, as your emperor, I order it. Admiral Biza has already been informed to that effect.”

“I see.”

The emperor smiled.

“An honor I did not expect, to be requested to journey with you for this campaign.”

“Of course not, but you shall find it amusing.”

Hazin started to turn away, not bothering to wait for a formal dismissal, and then he looked back over his shoulder.

“The poisoning show was most interesting today, wasn’t it? The third man on the right, the one whose face turned black as he swallowed his own tongue in convulsions, I designed that myself. It is remarkable stuff-tasteless, odorless. A dozen drops kill almost at once, but only three or four drops are far more interesting.”

He said the words coldly, impressing upon this rival the knowledge that if anything should befall him, one of his order would find a way to get through all the guards, all the precautions, and gain revenge.

Without waiting for a reply he slammed the door shut, leaving the emperor alone with his fears.