Each to his own place, each to his own honor.

  But of late, chaos had descended upon the city and palace.

  There was no escaping it.

  Knowing that, Jubayr followed his father into the strategy room. He discovered the Wing of the imperial fleet and the Shield of the empire’s ground forces waiting for them. Each man dropped to a knee and saluted Makar with fists to foreheads.

  The emperor waved them up and motioned their group to a massive ironwood table inscribed with a map of the Southern Klashe. The chamber itself was circular. Hundreds of other maps hung from the walls, forming the entire circlet of the Crown.

  The party settled around the table, including Makar’s three Chaaen. When it came to strategy, no man was above another. All counsel was valued and welcome. Though, the final decision was ultimately made by the emperor. His father hung his heavy cloak across the back of the tallest chair, lightening his load to accept the burden to come, and sat down.

  Makar waved for Jubayr to take the seat next to him. “My son, I’m sorry you must come here while still stained from your prior duty. But matters are changing swiftly.”

  “I’m yours to command, Father.”

  Makar patted his hand, then motioned to the wide table. Spread across its surface were thousands of small gold ships and tiny silver squares of horsemen and warriors. They were positioned where each of the imperial force was garrisoned or moored.

  The emperor nodded to a tall, stern figure. “Wing Draer, what is the latest message from the north?”

  Jubayr squinted as Draer stood and picked up a long wooden stick. The Wing used it to point to a collection of warships and other flotillas that had shifted to the northern border two nights ago, guarding over the ruins of Ekau Watch and patrolling the coastline. Draer shifted two of the largest warships out to sea, stopping halfway to the arc of stylized curls that represented the Breath of the Urth.

  “The Hawk’s Talon and the Falcon’s Wing should enter the Breath shortly after dawn and reach the southern coast of Hálendii by the first bell of Eventoll.”

  Jubayr stiffened and glanced at his father. “We’re moving against the kingdom? Already? We’ve barely ascertained what truly transpired two nights ago.”

  “We’ve determined enough.” Fire returned to his father’s eyes. A fist formed on the table. “That bastard Prince Kanthe fooled us all. We believed his claims of being exiled by false accusations. A deception supported by our Eye of the Hidden, who had verified the prince’s assertions, convincing us of their veracity.”

  Jubayr tightened his jaw. He had executed the spymaster earlier in the morning for that exact failure.

  Makar continued, “We now know Kanthe must have been working in tandem with his twin brother, Prince Mikaen, who led the attack on Ekau Watch. The bombing was not—as we first surmised—an explosive warning to return the traitor prince to Azantiia, but an elaborate ruse. A distraction for Kanthe to make his move upon us.” Makar glared around the table. “Those two dogs made fools of us. Grabbed my youngest son and my only daughter.”

  Jubayr heard the catch in his father’s throat at the mention of Aalia. He found his own hands forming fists.

  Makar’s voice grew louder. “We’ve scoured the northern lands and coastlines and failed to spot them. No doubt they’ve secured the swiftest ship and are already on their way to Azantiia. For any hope of securing their release, our response must be rapid and forceful.” He slammed a fist on the table. “Before any lasting harm is committed against Rami and Aalia.”

  Jubayr stared down at the two ships. “The Hawk’s Talon and the Falcon’s Wing are captained by Paktan and Mareesh.”

  They were Jubayr’s two younger brothers. All three of them were only a year apart in age.

  Makar nodded. “It was King Toranth’s two sons who fooled us. It will be my two sons who will exact our punishment.”

  Jubayr found this fitting, except for one detail. “I should be there, too, Father.”

  After the death of their mother, Jubayr had practically raised Rami. He had also doted upon and cherished his youngest sister as much as his father did. Their loss cut him deeply. He could barely dwell on it without despairing. He had to shy from his own heart, or the grief threatened to immobilize him.

  Makar shook his head. “Mareesh and Paktan have trained all their lives to be my sword in the clouds. You’re needed here, my son.”

  Jubayr frowned, but he had to acknowledge that his two younger brothers had indeed become valiant wingmen. It was their role in the empire, how they served their father.

  Jubayr leaned back, accepting this course.

  What else can we do?

  Unfortunately, his father did have another recourse. “We’ve been duped and blinded throughout all of this. It is time to further open our eyes. So, to better grasp and understand what’s to come, I will leave with the first dawn bell for Qazen, to consult with the Augury.”

  Jubayr choked down a gasp, beginning to understand why he had been summoned while still soaked in blood.

  “For too long,” Makar continued, “I’ve neglected the Augury’s counsel and see what that inattention has wrought us.”

  Jubayr turned to his father, voicing what needed to be spoken, knowing no other would challenge him. “You’re leaving now?” He waved to the map. “While we assault Hálendii?”

  “It must be done without delay.”

  A meek voice rose from one of his Chaaen. “Your Majesty, might it not be best to bring the Augury to Kysalimri, rather than traveling to him?”

  “No. The Augury must inhale of the fumes of Malgard to properly invoke his visions. Now is not the time for half measures. Not with the drums of war sounding louder with every passing day.”

  Jubayr knew there was no dissuading the emperor from this course. Makar leaned heavily on the wisdom and visions of the Augury, even during times of peace. With war on the horizon, his father would crawl on his hands and knees to gain that counsel.

  Thankfully, his father would seek a speedier method of passage.

  “I’ll leave in an arrowsprite. Such a ship will have me there and back in two days, three at most.” He stood and swept up his cloak from his chair and held it toward Jubayr. “Until then, my son, you will take up my mantle.”

  Jubayr sat stunned for a breath, then obeyed his father. He stood, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape. His father came around and secured the cloak about his shoulders, though Makar kept the imperial circlet atop his head.

  Makar waved to those gathered around the table. “Lean on them, my son, but trust your own heart. I’ve raised you well. This is a burden you can easily carry until I return.”

  With the heavy cloak weighting his shoulders, he was not sure that was true. He found it harder to breathe. Still, he reached up and secured the cloak’s clasp around his neck.

  “I will not fail you, Father.”

  Final details were discussed around the table. Most fell on Jubayr’s deaf ears as he struggled with his new position. Once matters were settled, his father whisked away, striding purposefully, determined to seek the Augury’s counsel.

  Jubayr stared at those who would serve that role for him. A long stretch of silence settled over the room, as if all were suddenly unsure of their status.

  Shield Angelon finally stood, bowing his head, asking permission to speak. The leader of the empire’s ground forces, in his fifth decade, was a fourth cousin. His dark features were split by a white scar across his forehead.

  Jubayr lifted a hand, having to shake loose a flap of the cloak to do so. “What is it?”

  “Draer has already related at length about our readiness to act against the forces beyond the borders. But I think we must now address the threats within our own walls. There were two attacks by the Shayn’ra this past night. The Fist of God burned a pair of supply wagons headed to a southwest garrison, and another group ambushed guardsmen outside a tavern, stripping them of their gear and carving the Shayn’ra symbol of an awakening eye into their chests.”

  Jubayr’s jaw tightened. He had to force words out of his mouth. “And what do you recommend?”

  “Emperor Makar has been reluctant to bring the full strength of the Shield upon those rebels, even after the attempted abduction of your sister.”

  Jubayr nodded, having taken part in those debates. “He fears rousing the baseborn to the Shayn’ra if we are too heavy-handed. Especially as the Fist have proven themselves to be mostly nuisances in the past. My father believes they’ve only grown bolder of late due to the attack on Ekau Watch, taking advantage of our distraction elsewhere.”

  “That may be true, but they’ve grown even more emboldened following the abduction of your siblings. Prior to this, the baseborn were already warming to them, swelling their numbers. The Fist achieved this by plying the lower castes with rewards. I wager the grain and meat stolen from those burned supply wagons were distributed at large, buying support by filling bellies.”

  “So, you would have us act now?”

  “And firmly. Especially before they learn that the emperor has vacated the city. I have a proposition, a way to bait a trap. With the Fist of God already growing and spreading like a pestilence—and likely to expand during this crisis—it may be our last chance to rip them out by the roots and secure their leader, Tazar hy Maar, before the Shayn’ra grow too strong.”

  Jubayr searched the faces of the others. Most remained stoic, not willing to commit. But two of his father’s Chaaen gave small nods of agreement.

  As Jubayr struggled with this decision, he felt the heavy weight of his father’s cloak. He knew it was a burden he must eventually shoulder. He stared down at his caked palms, the hands of an executioner.

  It was a role he knew well, one from which he could draw strength and honor during this time of chaos. He pictured handing the head of Tazar hy Maar to his father upon his return.

  He looked over to the Shield.

  “Rally whom you must and make it so.”

  40

  TAZAR HY MAAR crouched in the low croft above a saddlery. The stinging stench of urine-soaked hides drying in the shop’s yard wafted into the cramped space, carried on the slight breeze through the open attic window. He stared from his high vantage across the open market square.

  The moon hung at the horizon, heralding the start of a new day in another few bells. This early, the shadowy square lay quiet, with shops boarded shut and the surrounding streets mostly empty. A lone cart wended across the cobbles, drawn by a swaybacked mare, the drover half dozing in his seat. The horse hung its head low, equally dull to the world. The poor beast surely knew its path, having trod it countless times.

  The pair were emblematic of the entire city.

  Locked forever to one path, blinkered to all around.

  Tazar intended to change that, to rip off those blinders and end the tyranny of empires. The goal fired his blood, fueled by all he had learned in his two decades in the city.

  As a boy, he had studied at the Bad’i Chaa, not as a castrated acolyte, but as a baseborn servant at the House of Wisdom. His mother had taught him to read when he was barely a babe, which gave him the keys to the knowledge locked within those dire walls. He had stolen books, eavesdropped on classes as he mopped floors, and found a handful of mentors among the students who took pity on the scullery boy. Later, it required the trading of intimate pleasures to pay for the continuation of his secret schooling.

  His education was unique in other ways, too. He had not been restrained by the rigors of that scholarly prison. He had the freedom to study what he wanted, without fear of breaking scholastic dictates or imperial indoctrination. He had read of open societies, with less stringent mores, and desired it for himself, and later for everyone trapped in their baseborn castes, unable to ever rise above their stations.

  Over time, his intelligence was noted. He was eventually gifted to the palace to serve in the royal residence. Fury built inside him with each passing year. Cloaked in the anonymity of servants, he observed how the imri conducted themselves. He noted the bounty of their tables, while others starved. The richness of their garb, while others shivered through a winter’s night. Even their laughter and music seemed only to deafen them to the sobbing and misery all around.

  They were unendingly cruel, puffed with haughtiness, and firmly entrenched in their own superiority, a birthright of blood and incest.

  He had also spied upon the worst of them.

  The Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka.

  Her glares made many a servant soil themselves. Her arrogance was boundless—and it was not entirely unwarranted. She was devious in all ways, her intelligence far surpassing that of her siblings. It was that cunning that exposed him when he was sixteen. He had mistakenly tried to befriend her, like he had those at the school. But she saw through his subterfuge, maybe smelled the rancor rising from his skin.

  He had barely escaped into the sprawl of the city, where he eventually found a home among the Shayn’ra, who shared his ambitions and stoked it brighter. Only four years later, due to his ruthlessness and cleverness, he rose to lead them.

  And I will succeed where every generation failed before.

  He pictured Aalia’s face, gilded and painted, shining with the conceit of all the imri. Only days ago, he had been so close to—

  A shout rose from the dusty planks next to him. “There!”

  He followed where Jamelsh, his third-in-command, pointed to the far side of the square.

  Armored horses trotted into view, with riders decked the same. Next came a war wagon bristling with arrows and crossbows. The helms of the dozen guardsmen reflected the low sunlight between the buildings and shone brightly in the shadowy square.

  Following them appeared their target: a small cart pulled by four yoked oxen. Though the wagon was tiny, the load aboard needed the strength of so many shoulders and legs due to its sheer weight. Gold was far heavier than grain and oat.

  Another war wagon followed behind.

  Still, it was a meager escort for a fortune in gold, enough to fund the Shayn’ra for a decade, with enough left over to feed hundreds for the same span of time.

  Jamelsh lay on his belly and rolled to one side. “I was not wrong. It is as I heard. A shipment of gold. Headed to the port.”

  Tazar nodded. With war rising, the emperor was dispatching the gold to his sailing fleet in the harbor, where the bounty would be spread across the waves, intended to buy the loyalty of brigands and pirates, to use them as spies and saboteurs.

  But we will find a better use for it.

  Over the past day, the entire city was being roused. Garrisons were on the move. War machines hauled to key positions. Through a farscope, he had witnessed an arrowsprite blasting across the sky in a flume of fire and smoke. Both the Haeshan flag and the Klashean Arms had flown from its stern, confirming the rumors that the emperor was headed to Qazen, to consult his pet oracle. It was accompanied by a small fleet of the same vessels.

  Everyone was on the move.

  Such chaos served the Shayn’ra well.

  Like now.

  Someone must have thought this movement of gold would go unnoticed amidst the ongoing commotion, especially this early, when most of the city slept.

  But not all of us are in our beds.

  Tazar glanced to Jamelsh, who breathed hard, sweat dampening his forehead. His friend flashed a smile, excited for what was about to come. Maybe nervous, too. But they had prepared well.

  Tazar slid a covered lantern closer to the window. He waited until the imperial force was in the square—then he slipped the cover from the flame three times, signaling his second-in-command, who was hidden in an attic on the opposite side.

  A sharp whistle blew, alerting everyone.

  From all the shops surrounding the square, the Fist of God struck at the same time. Arrows rained from on high in a deadly hailstorm. Crossbows spat in coordinated volleys, slicing like a scythe through the square. From every doorway, the Shayn’ra boiled forth, wielding curved blades and whipswords. Knives flew from fingertips in flashes of silver.

  Horses and guardsmen fell.

  Still, the war wagons responded, firing everywhere. Many of the Shayn’ra dropped, either writhing or dead. But Tazar had drawn almost the entire Fist to this ambush. Over two hundred men and women. They swarmed like ants over the square. The lives lost would be replaced with their weight in gold.

  Still, he would not risk their lives and not his own.

  Tazar grabbed a coiled length of rope, tossed it out the window, and leaped out. He slid down the line, landed deftly, and freed his own scimitar.

  Jamelsh dropped next to him, wielding two hooked blades. When fighting, he was a blur of steel and skill.

  Still, such talent might not be necessary. Already, the imperial forces—outnumbered and unprepared—had succumbed to the fierce and sudden attack. Both war wagons were overrun, becoming slaughterhouses. A few guardsmen fled on horseback, rattling their armor, announcing their cowardice.

  Tazar noted the gold cart’s oxen all lay toppled in their traces. One still lived, struggling in its harness, bloody and bellowing. Tazar retrieved a crossbow from the dead hands of one of his warriors. The weapon was still cranked with a bolt in place. He lifted the bow one-armed, aimed, and shot the ox through its eye. It stiffened, neck craning back, then dropped to the cobbles.

  Anticipating the cart’s draft animals might not survive, Tazar had fresh animals secured in a side street. He turned to Jamelsh. “Go fetch the—”

  The man’s blade cut a swath across Tazar’s eyes. He instinctively ducked back, but the tip sliced the bridge of his nose, striking bone hard enough to dance his vision. Still, he had not survived this long by being slow to react.

  He swung the crossbow one-handed and smashed it into Jamelsh’s shoulder, driving him back a step—far enough for Tazar to raise his scimitar to the man’s chest. Jamelsh’s expression was agonized, but not because of the swordpoint digging into his skin.