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STORM DANCER

Chapter Four: Dahoud's Plan
4

Teruma sat at Kirral's desk, doing the work the Consort was supposed to do, dealing with demanding diplomats, corrupt satraps and rebelling natives. At the same time, she kept an eye on the Consort himself. This morning, he had waxed his moustache into zigzags, always a sign that he was planning something devious.

 

He and Paniour were engrossed in a board game, and while they were pushing coloured tokens and compliments across the cedarwood table, the air simmered with suspicion and dangerous desires.

 

Thirty-five years ago, they had been three young people with a hunger for power and a shared passion for strategy – a dancing boy, a studious aristocrat, a Ladysdaughter – who schemed to rule the land.

 

Paniour climbed up through the legions to command the Queendom's armed forces. His new lifestyle afforded him the dignity he craved, and nobody dared to mention his low past to his face. Kirral married the High Queen, and as her Consort became the official ruler of the land. He had endless opportunities to put pressure on prisoners and politicians. His harem, stocked with a variety of specimens, was his playground for mind games. As his head-wife, Teruma was in charge of palace management as well as the harem. In practice, she governed the country, freeing Kirral for his games and for increasingly bizarre human experiments.

 

“Your daughter has grown into such a lovely girl, Paniour.” Kirral rubbed a yellow gaming stone between his fingers. “How old is she now? Twelve?”

 

Paniour's hand, with its glassy-white scars and immaculately shaped nails, wavered slightly before he placed his green token. “Thirteen.”

 

“I noticed the new ripeness about her. I like Kadiffe. I really do.”

 

“Your well-stone,” Paniour said, his tone even, controlled. “Four moves.”

 

“I'll marry her. Then you'll be my father, won't that be something?” Kirral clacked one of his tokens on the board and brushed away one of Paniour's. “Four moves? I don't think so.”

 

“Keep your hands off my child.”

 

Worry stirred in Teruma's stomach. Kirral would view sex with an under-age girl as an interesting experiment, and when his curiosity hooked into a new subject, he seldom let go. Paniour, who loved his daughter with protective passion, was no feeble adversary. The situation bristled with danger. If the two became enemies, the Queendom's peace would be shattered, and her own position shaken.

 

Veiling her worry, she grabbed the tea jug to refill their beakers. “There's no need for hasty decisions. The legal marriage age is fifteen - fourteen with a parent's consent. Paniour, if you agree to a betrothal now, and Kirral, if you agree to delay the actual marriage for a few moons, this will satisfy everyone.”

 

With luck, Kirral's interest would wane before the girl reached fourteen.

 

Paniour's hands balled into white-knuckled fists. “I won't give my consent. Not now, not later.”

 

“I won't wait,” Kirral said. “Remember, my friend, I'm the Consort. Without my favour, you're nothing.”

 

The muscles in Paniour's battle-scarred arms bulged, and his fists clenched so tightly around his token that the white scars stood out. “I won't let you defile my daughter.”

 

The morning sun lanced through the window, throwing a pool of light on the crimson carpet at Kirral's feet. He stretched his legs on either side of the table and spread his arms in a wide gesture. “My dear friend, consider the options. Either you deliver Kadiffe to the comfort of the harem tomorrow – or she will perish in a dungeon. The dungeon inmates will be glad to get a female, and they will not fuss about her age.”

 

Chills trickled down Teruma's spine. Kirral's moral boundaries were slipping fast.

 

The mask of dignity slid back over Paniour's face. “What better could I wish for my only daughter than to wed her to my oldest friend?” His voice was butter-smooth as he lifted his palms in supplication, but under the table, his legs remained bent as if coiled to attack. He gestured at the board. “Your well-stone. Three moves.”

 

They resumed their game as if they still were best of friends, but tension seethed, laced with cruel pleasure, fear and fury. Although Paniour's self-control was admirable, it solved nothing. Over recent moons, Kirral's cruelties had escalated. Today, he had turned against Paniour; how long before he turned against Teruma? Of the three, Kirral might do the least work, but held the greatest power. Even if Paniour and Teruma joined forces, they had little chance against him. She would have to make plans.

 

In the meantime, she would pretend all was well. Returning to the desk, she erased most folk dances from the festival programme and substituted more pleas. Cruel judgements would keep Kirral occupied for a while.

 

A greenbelt announced arrival of Dahoud, the man who would end the insurgence in Koskara. According to the dossier, he was an ethnic Samili, capable and ruthless, yet apparently handicapped by his conscience. To get out of the legions, he had gone as far as faking his own death with Paniour's reluctant support. This man could be useful.

 

He stood straight as a spear, snapping a soldier's salute.

 

“What is your strategy, young man?” Kirral asked without taking his attention from the game. “I trust it is not going to need too many cohorts. We are hard pressed for men on the Zigazian border. As you know.”

 

“I'll go alone and persuade the Koskarans to accept me as satrap. Peacefully.”

 

“Entertaining.” Kirral pursed his lips as if judging a dance show. “You think they will listen to your persuasions? The Black Besieger is the man they most love to hate.”

 

“They won't recognise me,” Dahoud said. “I had a beard, and I intimidated enemies with a black face mask. Of the people who saw me close up, few stayed alive, and if they remember anything about my appearance, it's the mask. Besides...” For a moment, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Everyone knows the Black Besieger is dead.”

 

“If even one person recognises you, you will be dead,” Kirral said. “Your fate will become a favourite with storytellers for years after your demise. The natives will spit-roast you like a goat, or whatever they do with rulers who displease them.”

 

“The Samili custom for an unworthy ruler,” Dahoud said calmly, “is to slit his throat.”

 

Kirral’s forefinger traced the zigzag moustache. “What a waste. Why not simply frighten them into submission? The news that Black Besieger has risen from the dead should make them tremble.”

 

“If I am to be lord-satrap of Koskara I need their respect, not their fear.”

 

“How will you get there, Dahoud?” Paniour asked. “Without getting killed? Without being taken hostage?”

 

“Disguised as a trader. Carrying the kind of goods the rebels want: weapons.”

 

Kirral slammed his palms on the divan. “You want to arm the rebels?”

 

“Samples only, Highness. Once in the citadel, I'll negotiate with their leader. Mansour.”

 

“You need not travel alone.” Kirral waved his hand in a generous gesture. “Take ten or twelve soldiers with you. Take twenty. Disguise them as a merchant caravan or a troupe of dancing boys.”

 

At the mention of dancing boys, Paniour flinched.

 

“They would slow me,” Dahoud said.

 

Paniour pursed his lips and nodded. He was looking at Dahoud with the proud, possessive expression of a horse owner watching an animal he had trained. It struck Teruma how much the two men had in common. The lowly background, the daring strategies, the confidence. Dahoud might become an important ally if she handled him right.

 

“The plan is brilliant,” she said. “I can see that you two have briefed him well.” That should soothe the older men's pride. “However, a convincing trader travels slowly, buying and selling along the way. Either you spend half a year on the journey, or you won’t be believed. Besides, your presence in the palace has been noted by many people, and your departure will be observed and talked about. Rumour travels fast. If the Koskarans learn about the appointment, they won't fall for your disguise.”

 

“They cannot guess who I used to be,” Dahoud said.

 

“It's enough if they guess who you intend to be. They must not suspect you are the new satrap until you've wormed yourself into their trust.”

 

“I'll ride fast to Djildit Town and change into a trader there. That city teems with traders, so one more won't stand out. I can travel the final stretch at a trader's pace, and still reach Koskara in just over a moon.”

 

“Do you want me to send an agent ahead to Djildit Town to buy your outfit and trade goods? He won't know what they're for.”

 

“Thank you, my Lady.” Gratitude shone in his eyes. Good.

 

“One more request, Highness,” Dahoud said. “May I appoint my own councillors? People who are right for Koskara.”

 

“Of course, dear Dahoud. I rarely interfere with my satraps' staff choices. Just send me regular reports about how your councillors perform. Personal dossiers are so educational. And one more thing.” Kirral leant forward. “Like all provinces of the former Samil, Koskara is a cherished part of the Queendom. I cannot stress that enough.”

 

“Quite, Highness.” Dahoud's conviction sounded thin.

 

“What about the palace spies?” Paniour asked. “Even if we keep Dahoud's appointment secret, speculations about his presence at court will seep out, and if the rebels get to hear of it, they may not fall for the trader disguise.”

 

Kirral cast him a hostile look. “My palace does not harbour spies.”

 

“It's riddled with them. There are more spies than rats in this place.”

 

That was true: most of them worked for Teruma. She made her voice sound unconcerned. “If you're concerned about gossip, we'll give an official reason for Dahoud's presence: policing the Fool's Plea celebrations. Dahoud, we summoned you to deal with racial unrest, vandalism and drunken brawls. We'll borrow staff from other sources as well, so you'll be one of many, especially when you wear the official green uniform. The morning after, you vanish among the crowds pouring out of the city gates.”

 

Kirral looked smug, as if he had personally thought of the plan. “Are this year’s displays sensational enough to capture everyone’s attention?”

 

“Your judgements will keep everyone excited.”

 

“Excellent, excellent.” Kirral stretched his legs forward and dug his slippered feet into the deep rug. “I have a special entertainment to add to the programme. Have you met the magician who has arrived from Riverland? A female, and an interesting one. She claims she can call rain by dancing.”

 

“A dancing magician? Female, and a Riverian of all people?” Paniour’s brows lifted. “I thought their religion forbade them to dance in public. Doesn’t it offend their Virtue of Modesty?”

 

Kirral beamed. “Precisely. We will watch her entertain an audience of five thousand.”

 

“What if she needs privacy to call rain?” Dahoud asked.

 

“Rain? I believe that when it falls on my head. We have had dozens of wizards who claimed to bring rain.” Kirral squeezed the ends of his moustache. “Incompetent bunglers and charlatans, and fools hoping for a lucky strike and a reward.”

 

“What happened to them?” Paniour asked. “Are they in the dungeons?”

 

“Not all of them.” Kirral's pointed slipper traced the curving pattern of the carpet. “I gave them choices.”

 

“Even the women?” Dahoud asked.

 

Silence spread. Incense wafted from a burner.

 

Kirral picked up a yellow carved stone and twirled it between his fingers. “When Oubar falls, dear Dahoud, I will send your bride.”

 

“If she's willing. I must ask her first.”

 

“That you may not do,” Kirral said. “It would endanger your secret. The girl must not yet learn of either your appointment or her betrothal. Win Oubar, and we shall dispatch her. We have ways to make her willing.”

 

“Don’t hurt her!”

 

“Esha Ladysdaughter will wed you willingly when offered the right choices.”

 

Teruma almost dropped her stylus. Esha Ladysdaughter as Lady of Koskara? This was a complication she had not expected, but she kept her counsel.

 

“I am satisfied about Dahoud's suitability. The decision is the Queen’s.” Kirral clapped his hands as if summoning a servant. “Teruma, take him to the Queen.”

 

Seething behind her mask of compliance, Teruma rose. “Follow me, Dahoud.”

 

On the way out, she heard Kirral say, “Dear Paniour, you will deliver Kadiffe to me tonight. And pay attention to the game. Your general is dead. Four Moves.”

 

Teruma needed to make new plans fast. Plans which would include Koskara, and Dahoud.

 

*

 

Dahoud’s pulse was beating quickly. Meeting the Queen was an honour most people dreamt about She rarely granted audiences and never appeared in public. What would she look like? What if she examined him about some obscure facet of history or Queendom law? What if she interrogated him about private matters? She must know his true background, and had probably heard about his conduct with captives. Should he deny all?

 

He followed Teruma into the audience hall. The place was empty.

 

Dahoud stood very still, mentally revising the subjects about which she might question him. In which year were the Samil provinces integrated into the Queendom? What was the correct etiquette when offering wine to another satrap? Which law scroll dealt with the sanctity of Ladysdaughters? All that came into his mind were the penalties for rape. Not helpful.

 

The door creaked open. Four greenbelts carried the royal litter into the hall and deposited it on the brocade-draped podium. Dahoud sank to his knees before the textile-shrouded box and touched his head to the woolly carpet.

 

He heard Teruma’s voice. “I have the honour of presenting satrap candidate Dahoud for your approval.”

 

Fabrics rustled as the servants drew the litter’s curtains to the side. Dahoud did not raise his eyes. His heart thumped. The green and yellow pattern of the carpet stared at him like snakes.

 

“You are the new satrap of Koskara?” The female voice was high and flat.

 

“I hope to be.” Dahoud’s own voice croaked. What was the correct title for addressing the Queen the first time? Luminous Exultancy or World-Enfolding Brightness? He offered the address used by those privileged enough to claim longer acquaintance. “Ma’am.”

 

“That is nice. You will defeat the rebels?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

“Good. Rebels are not nice. Now say your oath.”

 

Was that all? Dahoud nearly made the mistake of sitting up in surprise.

 

“To worship, always and forever... to guard the Queendom with my every limb of my body, with every drop of my blood...” Sweating, Dahoud managed to recite the oath without halting.

 

“Approach.”

 

Keeping his gaze on the carpet, Dahoud crawled towards the litter for the anointment. He received a quick greasy dash down his forehead.

 

“Hold up your arms.”

 

He stretched them up for the Queen to tie the purple-fringed bands below his elbows.

 

A moment later, he heard her clap, and the servants carried the litter away.

 

Rising, Dahoud marvelled at the bands, purple braid with softly falling silk fringe. He pulled them off and wound them into a tight roll. He would not wear them openly until he had conquered Koskara.

 

Now he was a satrap. It felt as unreal as riding a storm cloud. Soon he might be a husband as well. But Esha must not feel coerced into this marriage.

 

He followed the head-wife into the corridor. “Lady Teruma. I have a favour to ask.”

 

She studied him with the gaze of a horse-dealer assessing a bargain. “Come into the rose garden.”

 

As soon as they stepped outdoors, heat scorched like a breath from a potter's kiln. The noon sun slammed short shadows on the dried-up flowerbeds. Where water had once danced in the fountains, empty basins gaped. In these years of drought, even the royals had stopped wasting water on such frivolities. Koskara would be drier still.

 

Teruma steered him to the dappled shade of a rose arbour where blooms smothered the wooden structure like an army overrunning the land.

 

He sought to make courtly conversation. “The roses don't seem to suffer in the drought.”

 

“The Consort waters them personally every night.” A bracelet of silver scales slithered around her wrist as she sat gracefully on the bench. Fine age lines framed her dark eyes, and a wealth of dark, silver-streaked ringlets tumbled over her shoulders. She had the beauty and bearing of a goddess. “What can I do for you?”

 

“Will you propose marriage to Esha on my behalf? Tell her I hold her in high esteem. Tell her she'll have time to get to know me before we marry.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you want to wed her?”

 

“If she'll have me.”

 

“You must get married soon, and it must be a Ladysdaughter. Does it have to be Esha?”

 

“Esha is perfect,” Dahoud assured her. “She studied statecraft, and worked for her father's government. She'll know everything that I don't.”

 

Unseen grasshoppers ticked in the flowerbeds.

 

“The choice of unmarried Ladysdaughters is limited,” Teruma said. “And competition for their hands is fierce. But they all want to be Ladies, and ready-made lord-satrap is a catch. You can take your pick.”

 

“I met some of them, and they sniffed as if I belonged in a latrine ditch. Today, my title makes me smell like a rose. Esha is different.”

 

Teruma twisted the cluster of beads in her ear. “Esha was raised in an atmosphere of refinement and wealth.”

 

“I'll ensure she has everything she needs.”

 

“Yes. You'll have to do that.” Teruma's citron perfume mingled with the fragrance of Kirral's over-heated roses. “The Samil is a tough place for a delicate flower. The heat. The poverty. The violence.”

 

“I can protect my wife.”

 

She picked a blossom and plucked its petals. “This rose variety is almost drought resistant. It's commercially grown in Koskara for its oil. None of the ordinary roses would survive long.”

 

“In her own way, Esha is strong.”

 

“That she is. If your heart is set on her, I'll present your suit. Now let's talk about Koskara.” She flicked the nude flower away. “Once upon a time, the Samil was a great civilisation, ruled by an Empress, famed for its architecture, poetry and songs, wealthy from incense trees and caravan trade. Now it's split like a carcass, its limbs owned by different nations who gnaw the flesh from its bones. Koskara is one of the bones, and it has little flesh left.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Your last campaign has bled almost all life out of it. The past four years of Quislaki occupation have sucked the land dry of resources, and with seven years of drought, the land has suffered enough. Will you respect your land and protect your people?”

 

“I intend to.”

 

“You know that I grew up in the Samil, don't you? My late father was lord-satrap of Tajlit. But that's not my only link with the Samil.” She twisted the silver bracelet around her wrist, looked around nervously, and lowered her voice. “I'm descended from a Samili Lady through the female line.”

 

That would make her a claimant to ruling part of the Samil. Impossible. “I thought the native dynasties were killed after the conquest?”

 

“They were.” She leant towards him and held her gaze with his. “My great-grandmother was a Samili Ladysdaughter who married a Quislaki Lord, long before the conquest. My family viewed Samili blood as shameful and kept it quiet.” She slid a thin object from the folds of her sash. “I have a gift for you: a seal for the new satrap of Koskara.”

 

The carved stone seal was set into a dagger hilt. The weapon lay smooth in his hand. With its leather-wrapped wooden hilt and plain cowhide sheath, it was the kind of knife a trader might carry, but the bronze blade was of unusual quality, its sharp edge making it a cutting tool, its point designed to pierce.

 

“My Lady, you honour me.”

 

“I want you to have it now, not on Fools Plea Day with people watching. It's my pledge to help you – as long as you help Koskara. Good day.”

 

Her sandals clicked down the garden path.

 

Dahoud rubbed his thumb over the seal. Cut from limestone, its emblem was a gatehouse: a fitting symbol for barriers to breach and for boundaries to protect.

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