Queen Sterya Khad of Tilva Sanghon was a good liar, especially when it came to lying to herself.
All her life, she kept telling herself that her grandfather was the best guardian anyone could ask for. He was authoritative and he was protective of her and he had gotten her the groom a lady can only wish for: the King, Ruler of the Tethered Five, himself. But he never sang her to bed. He got for her tutors in etiquette, but never gave her a chance to clinch her own lessons. He got for her the most subservient of servants, but never sat her down and explored where her passions lay. She could only guess he had hoped they would wilt with the onslaught of adulthood.
Aleth Sanghon might have enslaved death, but he could not enslave his granddaughter.
Presently, Sterya held the strad-cards in front of her face such that their synumbers were hidden from the ladies. Selicia had her upper lip curled, Beigall had hers bit. On the sofa, Saphira's expression was inscrutable.
"That's a lovely chemise you've got there, your Majesty," Beigall said as she plucked two cards from the exclusion pile.
"Thank you," said Sterya politely, having hardly heard what the compliment was. "I'll take the dice now."
Selicia with astonishment woven into the lines of her face passed the level, rectangular splat to Sterya. The Queen breathed deeply, flattening it between her two palms.
"Sure about this?" chided Saphira Orlocke.
Sterya skimmed one hand over the other and the dice rolled onto the wooden board.
"It says . . . five," the trucebreaker, in this case an old woman with a gold monocle, read carefully. "Five?"
"Five," Sterya falsely confirmed.
"Anyone wants to call charade?" offered the trucebreaker. A dubious squeak escaped Highlady Beigall Arvala's throat but she spoke not. They had swallowed the bluff like sugared curd.
"Where do the scores stand?" asked Selicia.
"Her Majesty is at seven and six, Highlady Saphira at seven and four."
"How many times have I told you," said Saphira, "you should call me Siph?"
"Pardon, my Lady," said the trucebreaker, studying the scorechart. "And . . . my Ladies Selicia and Beigall stand tied at six and two."
There was a grimace from both. Sterya raked aside her sheet of auburn hair to check her cards and the synumbers on them for the tenth time. She was one lie away from another victory, her third in a row. She was a good player - gods, she was the kind of player who betted onion and won castles.
"You can quit, you know," Sterya said out loud. "Spare yourself the humiliation."
"Penva is simply an excuse," said Saphira, resting a hand on her belly. "What better person for my unborn son to spend time with than his queen? What better way for him to learn strategy, dignity and adages?"
"How can you know it is a boy?"
"How could I not? He's in my womb."
"Don't you feel," said Sterya, "he might be embarrassed that his mother keeps losing?"
"He has to learn losing is a part of life sometime." Saphira shrugged. "Early lessons stick."
"You had best let him also a taste of victory, or he shall get too used to defeat to digest anything else."
Saphira looked thoughtful. "Perhaps we should consider playing a different game another morn then."
Selicia yawned, then blushed. She was not good at these kind of conversations, or conversations of any kind for that matter, but in the few maes that Sterya had known her, she had not failed in seeming the kosher decent woman. Certainly she was much more decent than Beigall Arvala, who Sterya was certain only joined their sessions of play in hopes that there might be some intimate political information she could garner. So far, Beigall could reap none that Sterya had harvested.
Maybe she thinks she can actually play a fiddle on me, the Winner of Games, Sterya reflected. Or mayhaps she loses deliberately, to gain my trust. Good Vaven, this place is making me lose what little straw I have left for stuffing in my head.
The trucebreaker recited a sequence off the stag-card, hearing which Selicia openly groaned. That told Sterya what possibilities for Selicia's synumbers she could rule out and internally she smiled. Sterya was planning the schedule of her next bluff, its nature and implications, when a knock on the door gave her a start.
"Come in!" called she.
In came a girl in a sundress with cheeks like dried apricots. Sterya recognized the girl as Minair, one of her mother-in-law's handmaidens.
"What brings you here, sweetie?" asked she of the girl.
Said Minair, "The Lady Highest would like an audience with you, your Majesty."
"So she shall have it. When is my audience required by her?"
"She stands outside the chamber right this moment, your Majesty."
"Not anymore," said Eoli Khad, tall and once fair, as she stepped up besides Minair. She was dressed in heavy samite and wore a lovely diadem on her head. Her eyes were pale white. They flitted over the Penva board and cards and dice disapprovingly. Not surprising in itself; her son the King disapproved of the game also. What Sterya tried to understand to no avail was, how was it gambling if there was nothing monetary involved?
Everyone arose, herself included, the old trucebreaker a tad slower than the rest. Minair looked down at her feet.
"We shall take our leave, Lady Mother," said Saphira, risen from the sofa, gathering up her tinsel-dress.
But Eoli said, "Nonsense. You can all of you stay. Yes, you too." The trucebreaker stopped in her step. Beigall's face lit up. "I just wanted a quick word. Rosy here," she shot the handmaiden a look of edge, "was supposed to ask you a question on my behalf."
"Rosy!" Beigall exclaimed. "Apt name. These servants sprout thorns behind our backs."
Less thorns than you, Sterya was tempted to say. She felt she wanted to remind the Highlady Beigall that when her Tilva had been a House, its sigil had been a fish.
"It is sommer what I call her by," said Eoli, "and I will not hear another say a word about my servants."
For all her rich clothing and jewelry, Beigall looked identical to Rosy - nay, Minair - when she put her eyes on the floor.
"I'm - I'm sorry, Lady Mother," meanwhile stuttered the maiden. "My fa - father, he has fever. The healers say it could be Brackwhisp and - I've just been - "
"My deepest sympathies," Eoli said dismissively. She was all smiles when she turned to Sterya. "Now, child, I know you're . . . otherwise occupied. But I am going to-day as I do every other month to visit the Central Ations House. It bodes well to let the city know your active hand in their security."
Child. Not that she minded not being called "your Highness" or "Majesty" or "Grace" for once, but in spite of what her husband told her, Sterya had a sinking feeling in her chest that Eoli Khad did not fully accept her as the life partner to her son. May be this was in view of the fact that Sterya originally had a nuptial arrangement with Vaarin - Aryan Khad's son, but not Eoli's.
"Indeed, mother," was all she said.
"Would you like to join me?" proposed Eoli.
"Nothing would delight me more."
"Marvelous, child, marvelous. Meet me in the plaza by the second chime." She eyed the Highladies and the trucebreaker. "We shall talk and take leave then."
Minair followed the Lady Mother, Lady Highest Eoli Khad of House Fregina, out the chamber looking absolutely miserable.
Carp and trout swam in the pond. The hedgerow gaped at them and it gaped at her gaping at them. The sky was an imperial blue devoid of clouds.
"Queen," Sterya whispered to nobody, fondling the teardrop-shaped necklace in her hand. "Queen. I'm the fucking Queen."
It felt good to swear, albeit at carps. It felt liberating, and for no decisive reason.
The day of her wedding had been the happiest day of her life. Happiest by far. Happier than if it had been Vaarin she was wed to, since she had always sensed a certain darkness in him. Alain, on the other hand, was a true gentleman if there ever was one.
She had been preparing for this her entire life. To rule besides the King, to council him, bear his seed and gift him children. Children who would be heirs and heiresses to the Namken Throne. If, that is, there was still a throne left to sit on twenty summers from now.
The east was growing bolder as day proceeded day. How, if Ptirre had no allies yet as Alain and his advisors believed, were they overthrowing nation after nation, princedom after princedom? That was the question most often asked.
The question Sterya asked was: what incentive had they for waging war?
Yet she was no General. She had never fought battles nor convened justice court. She had never met any from the untethered cities, none from Nurva or Waverly or Ptirre or the Soonlands for that matter. She knew not much, except from ancient musty records that ancient crotchety men had scribed.
She had thought being a queen would be . . . more. Just more. She had thought she would be able to do something for the kingdoms she presided over, overcome the bestialities which forever kept peace a feeble thread.
She had lied, lied to herself that she was more than a brooding mare. And why not? She was good at it.
"They are here," croaked an Ardaunt. At least they had a code which prevented them from calling her by any name.
Sterya said her goodbyes to the carp and trout and her vicious thoughts, and had the Ardaunt lead her to the tiled main plaza. Beneath the idols of Jovanni and Carl was a host of Ardaunts with their enamel maces in hand. Ten in all, Sterya counted, and a man who looked to be a knight on his orrock in addition, complete with vambraces and a gorget. She approached him with a friendly smile.
"Ser Cleward Ormang at your service, your Grace," said the knight. "You look like Aeomar's worst foe, so radiant are you."
"Flattered, ser, and may I ask where you are headed?"
"Why, I am here to escort you and the Lady Mother to the Ations House."
"Such a host for so small a passage?"
"I only follow orders, your Grace."
"And who gave you these orders?"
"General Alrej Whasu, your Grace."
Sterya had only had brief encounters with the General, but he did remind her of good old Admiral Hasheem from her younger days – he had the same hardness about him, but much like a coconut, was presumably soft from within. Besides, Alain seemed to like the General, and that was good enough for her, dutiful wife that she was.
None too soon the Lady Mother was there, and now she was wearing a light silk gown instead of the samite that had adorned her body earlier. Sterya looked down at her own chemise; it was tidy, at least.
From the beginning Eoli Khad seemed rather in a haughty mood. "Ser Cleward, is it?"
"Yes, Lady Mother."
"Where's Whasu? I specifically requested for his presence in our escort."
"The General apologizes for not being here - "
"I don't hear him apologizing. He's neither in my earshot nor in my sight."
The knight dismounted his orrock, which sniffed idly. "The General had to go to Woodstocker's Lane. There have been more local disputes lately."
"Yes, I imagine beggars and thieves are greater priorities than the royal family these days."
Ser Cleward pulled down his visor. "I will protect you with my life. Lady Mother. Your Grace."
"That is a very nice sentiment, ser," said Eoli, "only your life is not the General, and the General is our best fighter."
"It's just the city, we can protect you." You are being paranoid, Sterya knew the man wanted to add. Being paranoid and a bitch.
"Excuse me?" Eoli burst. "What in the grain of Thea do you mean by it? This 'just the city' is neither just nor safe, and you very well know that if you're not both blind and deaf, ser! There are revolts and uprisings at every corner. You think those rats will let the Queen and the King's mother pass by safely if they have a chance to seize us by our dresses and defile us?"
"I . . . I am sorry, Lady Mother."
"Keep your sorry and keep your life. Make sure we live."
Sterya had expected a palanquin, but a carriage strode into the plaza, pulled by a particularly monstrous looking orrock. It was nearly at level height with Sterya, nostrils inflated as melons and eyes red as blood. Three Ardaunts on either side of the wagon, two behind and two in front with Ser Ormang. In that formation they took off from the plaza, out of the Hadekin Palace, and into the city.
The ride was quiet throughout their passing in Pardel. Then they were in Charmat bazaars, and the quiet shattered like crockery. Hawkers and peddlers and beggars and dogs cried and charged at their carriage, browning under the sun. Sterya tried her hardest to not catch a word they were saying, for that would sully her ears. But once she lifted the cloth on the window and saw black-brown bodied men and women being kept at a distance from the carriage only by the length of the Ardaunts' maces. If not for them . . . Sterya shuddered at the unbidden image of the poor toppling the carriage and gnawing at their bones while she and the Lady Highest were still alive.
It hadn't been paranoia, then. The state of affairs was worse than she could have anticipated.
"This is why we're going to the Ations House," said Eoli suddenly. Sterya looked at her, hair grey and greying, shoulders slumping and slumped. A widow was all she saw in Eoli right then. "Mages might be shit on the Holder's shoe, the lowest of the low, but . . . they are powerful. They are the minority, as are we the nobles, but they are powerful. And if they join the masses, the majority . . . well, then, that's the end of us. The end of an Era. The end of the Khad Dynasty. Would not that be something?"
Sterya waited for her to catch a breath. Collect her thoughts. Eoli Khad had been Queen for more summers than she had been alive, albeit the second-preferred queen of a king under whom peace had reigned long and true.
"Having the mages submit to the nobility would be the ultimate monopoly on power. Power. Power is everything. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. With power comes knowledge and with power comes wealth. But to the crown any allegiance might waver. To the gods, however . . . Religion. It is the mightiest weapon ever forged."
"You would enjoy the company of my grandfather," worded Sterya. Eoli chuckled. "I do wish I would be told more regarding the politics of this city."
Eoli's eyes glinted white like sunlight on snow. Her pupils constricted. Sterya could have sworn they almost went vertical like a cat's. "Your duty, child, is to your husband first and then to your nation. Keep my son happy. He needs you."
"He tells me everything," Sterya blurted. "He has been since his brother's banishment."
Eoli winced at the mention of that. "Well, I'm sure he had his reasons to not tell you about the so-called politics of this city. Take my word for it, only power is real. Politics is merely a game."
And I am good at games.
The rest of the journey was a thoroughly silent affair, but the people outside the carriage raged on. Sterya found herself wishing that she had not taken cede to the Lady Mother's offer. That she were back in her bedchamber, rolling dice and lying.
It was that very day on Second of Zinlor, the Bleeding Month, that a closeted warren in Rivate called Butcher's Square saw a gathering unlike any known to be hosted in the city's history.
Butcher's Square was a rabbit-hole for men. It was a sunless place, cloaked forever in dark. It connected many chokes of meagre dwellings together. It was built of stone, so any and every noise carried easy across its many branches. It was the better sewers.
There was a dais of sorts, at the end of the focal shaft of the warren. On it stood a man in an ivory tunic, wearing a straw hat and bulging muscles. His skin was brown as wood soil, brown as kelp, with patches of black spotted here and there. He had his hands locked behind his iron back and his lips were a hard, even line etched in his face.
Hundreds of eyes were on him. Hundreds of ears listening to him.
His name was Parush, and his voice was a roar.
"The tragedy of the Ostren Era of Blood. Limp but reaching in its call. Overcast, yet Esper blesses us with no rain. Thea with no grain. Merchants buy from us and us from nature, yet nature has left our hand. All I see when I look at the privileged bastards that rule us are the crumbling ruins of a once-great nation. I with my heedful associates have discussed the Boy King's marriage at some length."
The man gestured grandly at the sibling twins standing behind him. They nodded grimly at their audience.
Parush did continue. "His whore wife whispers poison into his ears. She steers him by his manhood and mageic so she has such a regime where her bane word is law.
"War. 'tis here! Let no fair 'un tell you else. We grow bean for their exploits. Our sons bleed on the battlefield while they court and fuck! We starve while they feast and drink! The Boy King toys with mages and his whore wife pumps his cock! Are these the rulers we want? Are these the rulers we choose?"
A muffled wave of chitter rippled through the crowd.
Parush did continue his excellent spiel. "They run from war like scared pups. Like great coward snakes they coil themselves behind their feather beds and jewels. They make no course to repel the enemy in the east, and soon those we love shall lay dead in our lifeless hold! Is this what we want? Does us laboring for the Boy King not content him, that he wishes to bring upon us such doom?
"No. We all shall go to Jovanni's care, there is no moving converse to that. But shall we do so fighting for our beloveds or getting slaughtered by our foe? There is no question in this. In any of this. There is no honor, no speck of it or respect, in licking the boots of lesser men. Of weak boys and snake sluts!
"We are each of us our own man, and each is owned by own. We each are a sovereign, a lord, a lady in one. We are a Dynasty unto ourselves, and woe unto our adversary! We are made into poverty by corrupt rulers. We are made into cowards, look just at the reflection of your heart!
"Brothers and sisters. Open your eyes. Look what we already have done and accomplished. They fear in leaving their Shit Palace, for we are the stronger strain! They know full well that we can tear them limb from limb. They worry, for they know their end draws near. Even now at Woodstocker's Lane our fellow comrades keep them occupied so we can have this talk. The combat is always going on."
"We don't know how to fight!" someone in the crowd shouted, touched by a fantastic agreement.
One of the twins behind Parush, the brother, stepped forward. "We ain't fighters, no two shits given or taken. We are sons o' the soil, daughters some, and, Tilda bless, we take pride in it. But we outnumber the fair 'uns ten to one, may be more. We are working to arrange for arms. We will lose many of our lives, but those of us who live will live as free men. As blessed men, unoppressed. Yer welcome, yer shits."
"Where'll you get arms, handsome boy?" a woman shrilled. A doubtful enthuse took seat in the listeners' heart. There were all sorts of questions, and they all melded into one: was this worth it? The doubt rang across the stone roof and stone walls. Piss below their feet steamed and stank.
We are Casteless, we get beaten if we swear in front of a noble, what will be done to us if we are found engaging in a revolt?
Parush raised a fist, bicep prominent. "We understand your worries. We understand your apprehension. But it is not just we who want the Boy King fell."
These words had their intended effect by silencing every mouth.
"We have confidantes, inside the Palace and out. In other speak, when the time is ripe, help will be provided.
"Brothers and sisters. Think on what I say. Take an oath, not to me, not to-day - to yourself and when you feel this cause is for your good, and for the good of your children, and their kin after them. Do spread the word of my word, and that to every ear. I care naught if they sidle into the wrong man. I care naught if I am killed for this cause, for in it I believe.
"In us I believe. Shepherd mount your bow. Farmer pick your pitchfork. Woodcutter swing your axe. Each of us must fight tooth and nail in our own ways if we are to do this. We shall go down in glory if we shall go down at all, and glory be thine own.
"I am you, writ strong. Now you be me, writ stronger. Holder bless. The Seohrah be with you."
So it began, as it had begun a thousand times before. The rebellion. The legend of Parush was on every mouth, in each ear. Parush, who was Khannar Shmeg Reborn. Parush, who could hypnotize men by speech and make them do his bid. Parush, who was a Line on the Hand, who was a forsaken of the necromancers from the jungle-island of Wenrakh, who was fearless and the Herald of Avney.
Parush, who was Casteless, who was Shmeg'nar.
Penva seems like an interesting game, doesn't it?