The Assassin King

46

The wild ringing of bells from the distant garrison, caught and picked up by the carillon towers of Jierna Tal, dragged Talquist from his repose.

The bells of the garrisons along the border had been ringing regularly day and night each changing of duty shift since the invasion, or to signal comings and goings of troops and divisions. Until now he had barely noticed them. But this pealing was different; there was an urgency, an insistency that rang with portent and caused dread in the Emperor Presumptive’s heart. Talquist rose from his thickly besilked bed and robed himself. Then he went to the balcony and looked out over the dark streets of Jierna’sid glowing in the lanternlight and the radiance of a hundred duty fires burning at the patrol centers. The smoke of the foundries belched into the night sky, on the other side of the city, hovering in the air like a thousand ghosts before the wind carried it into the desert. “Why are the bells ringing?” he demanded of one of the guards stationed there. “Go and discover this.” The soldier bowed and hurried away down the inner steps.

He was back several agonizing minutes later.

“The titan returns, m’lord,” he said. The emperor’s brows arched, then knit in consternation. He looked down over the balcony railing to the main street far below, where noise was beginning to issue forth the way it had not long ago, when Faron had first returned to the site of his animation, his birth upon the great weighing, plate of the Scales. Then, it had been the noise of panic and terror, as the titanic statue had lumbered down the street, smashing oxcarts and destroying anything in its way, most especially any troops that tried to interdict it before it reached Jierna Tal.

This time, however, the sounds were muted, confused, but orderly. The commanders had apparently ordered more light, for the signal fire braziers atop each street post roared suddenly aflame at the far end of the street, casting illuminated pools on the cobblestones below. The titan was, indeed, approaching, casting an enormous shadow that twisted against the buildings in the dark as it neared. The gait was somehow different. Unlike the lumbering statue that had violently lurched down the street, this time Faron’s stride was measured, even; he walked slowly, standing erect, with a control that Talquist had not seen before. Walking down the center of the thoroughfare, ignoring troops and carts, he approached Jierna Tal with a manner that in a being with less innate power and musculature would not even be seen as threatening.

Talquist’s eyes narrowed. The merchant in his blood was suspicious; he had many times seen men with daggers behind their backs ambling as if they had not a care in the world, and so was always suspicious when situations that should be worrisome appeared innocuous. But the shadow of the titan continued to approach in the dark, leaping in the light of the fires, while the soldiers of the city garrisons stood in the gutters and muttered under their breath. When it finally reached the main gate in the wall surrounding the palace, the living statue stopped and raised its eyes to the balcony on which Talquist stood. The Emperor Presumptive held his breath.

Then, with all the humility of a kitchen wench, its arms at its sides, the statue bowed. Talquist exhaled again. He signaled to the guard on the balcony of the library below his chambers. “Tell them to let him in directly,” he said.

He turned away from the window, listening to the sounds of murmuring reduce to silence as the portcullis was lifted, the wood screaming, the chains clanking, then lowered again. Talquist willed himself to be calm as the minutes ticked by. He sat in his great walnut chair, one of the first things he had imported from Manosse when he first took over the Mercantile, and watched himself in the mirror at the end of the room.

I look regal, he decided. And nervous.

The heavy footsteps thudded against the stone of the inner staircase. Talquist swallowed. He clutched the arms of the chair as the resounding steps grew closer, forcing himself to breathe. Finally Faron appeared in the entranceway at the top of the stairs. He cast a glance at the guards on the balcony, then pointed down the stairs.

The Emperor Presumptive considered their usefulness for a moment and, deciding that it was minimal, nodded. “Leave us,” he said. The guards complied rapidly. “I am glad to see you have returned,” he said smoothly, years of negotiating in tenuous situations aiding him in his attempt to sound calm. “I was worried that you had become lost, or misdirected, even captured.”

The muscles of the stone titan’s face curled into what, in a living man, would have been a wry smile. Please, it said. The word dripped with irony.

The emperor’s black brows shot up into his hairline. He stood quickly and looked more closely at the titan, noting the appearance of details that had not been present in the rough-hewn statue of the ancient soldier he had harvested to make it. Eyebrows, lids and lashes, articulated joints and opposable digits; the formerly primitive effigy of an anonymous indigenous warrior had evolved into a giant man, a soldier of titanic proportions, an animist god of a sort.

And though its mouth did not move, it could speak.

The voice it spoke with belied its appearance. Not the deep bass or thundering roar that might have served as a complement to its appearance, Faron’s voice was instead harsh and high-pitched, with a crackling edge to it. In that voice the echo of other voices could be heard, some low and soft, others shrieking, all brimming with a nascent and ominous power that made the skin on Talquist’s neck prickle in fear.

“What—what is your intention now, then, Faron?” he asked. “When I heard that you had left the battle at Sepulvarta, I thought perhaps you had tired of leading the army.”

I had.

“Then why are you back?” Talquist set his teeth, knowing that there was nowhere to run.

I wish to continue our association for now, the statue said in its harsh voice. But on my terms. Suddenly Talquist relaxed. He had been in the Mercantile long enough to recognize when a deal was about to be laid on the table that would be beneficial to both sides. “All right,” he said. “What are your terms?”

The statue’s eyes met his directly, sizing him up.

I will lead your army. We will take the Middle Continent, even unto the northern reaches of the Teeth. The land will be yours—but I want a particular prize.

“Certainly,” Talquist said quickly. “What sort of prize?”

Like you, I seek a Child as well—a child that sleeps in the mountains. I want that child—and the scales. All of them.

The emperor’s throat tightened. “I’ve—I’ve never denied you access to your scales, Faron,” he said quickly. “Or to mine.” The titan’s blue eyes gleamed more brightly. They will all be mine, Emperor. One way or the other. Talquist inhaled. The threat in the sharp voice was unmistakable. The thought of relinquishing the violet scale that had given him his throne, and his power, was a loss almost too painful to contemplate. Even the knowledge that the titan was offering to fulfill one of the crucial elements in his greatest plan was scarce comfort; the ancient piece of a dragon’s carapace had taken root in his soul, had appeared in his dreams almost every night from the moment he had found it in the sand and fog of the Skeleton Coast buried beneath the bones of ships of the Cymrian Third Fleet. He had spent a good deal of his life trying to discover what it was, and what it could do, apprenticing himself to ships’ captains and miners, merchants and priests. All that servitude was finally beginning to reap a benefit. But, he reminded himself, should he try to withhold it now, Faron would grind him into pulp where he stood. It seemed little enough to pay for getting everything he desired. The merchant met the titan’s eyes, then went to the secret chamber, returning a moment later with the scale swathed in its velvet wrapping. He walked directly to Faron and extended his hand. “Done,” he said. The titan smiled. In that moment Talquist thought he could hear the rumblings of the gears of the world turning.