A Death of Kings

Copyright © 2003 by M. A. R. Barker

Here is a sample from "A Death of Kings"

The man upon the dais turned his head. "Another, please, Dzé!"

The girl slipped the silver plectra back over her fingers and began to tune her instrument. "What would you hear, Master?"

"Something lively. No more of your long Engsvanyáli dirges. The world is sad enough as it is."

"A love song, then?" She drew back the cuffs of her long gown of fishnet webbing, sat up, and drew forth a single plangent chord from her Sra'úr. "An ode by Yetíl? A peridákh-sonnet from one of the poetesses of Héru?"

"All too mournful. Have you no folksongs in your own land?"

She laughed, deep in her throat. "We always seem to be gloomy In Háida Pakála, Lord. Our Skeins are woven from the fabric of sorrow itself." She tugged her gown tight against her breasts and managed a little smile. "Would you like to lie with me once before...?"

The man looked down at her, as though he saw her for the first time. "No. It is too late-I am not so minded..." He stroked his small, sharp goatee. "It would not be seemly if they came while we were..."

She glanced up. His eyes were in shadow beneath his thick, black brows, and she could not tell if he smiled or wept. Tentatively, she evoked a sequence of chords from her instrument. "Something like this, Master? 'The Spring Dances?' Rekhmé's 'Joys of Autumn Drónu-wine?'"

White teeth gleamed in the blackness of his beard. "Yes. Play! Can you sing, too?"

"A little, but only in my own language-Hijajái."

"That tongue is used in Háida Pakála. I do not know it, but let me hear you nonetheless!" Gold flashed from a ring upon his finger as he tapped the marble mosaic of the dais in time with her melody. When she had finished, he asked, "Dzé? Is that your true name?"

The girl frowned and rubbed her high forehead. She wore her hair in long ringlets at the back, but her temples were closely shaved, as was the fashion in Pakála. "Dzé is what your Salarvyáni folk call me, Master. In my own land I was named Dza'íth Péllu."

"Why was I not told?"

"The slaver who sold me made my name shorter so that as not to detract from my value. Our names are unfamiliar to outsiders."

He nodded. "Or else they are considered inauspicious. Many of our Salarvyáni names are sequences of syllables chosen by casting lots. Only the gods know if they have any meaning."

"I had heard. Even your lineage-names are magical cantrips. We make our names by lecanomancy-a few drops of oil are poured into a bowl full of water. A priest then 'divines' the name from the shapes formed by the floating oil. Shall I change my name in order to be more auspicious, master?"

He hissed her name through his teeth. "I prefer Dza'íth. Come here."

She obeyed. He undid her belt-cord and admired her breasts and thighs. Then he reached forward and caressed her.

"Do you mind-Dza'íth?"

"How should I mind, Lord? I am a slave. Much more-and much worse-has been done to me."

"Did my people mistreat you? The eunuchs of the palace?"

"They whipped me-but rarely. I am a musician, master. I play when I am told and thus arouse little jealousy."

He pulled her close, kissed her, and encircled her waist with one arm.

Dzé cocked her head. "I hear someone, Lord. They are coming."

The man on the dais shifted his position, arranged his stiff, brocaded robe, and ran his hands over his perfumed, curling hair and beard. He motioned the girl back, away from the dais.

Footsteps echoed through the hall. Boots clattered upon the black onyx and milky quartz of the mosaic floor. Someone called a challenge, and another voice responded. A halberd clanged against the marble wall. Robes rustled, and sandals made shushing noises.

Four men and a woman led the party. A company of black-armoured soldiers followed, and behind these came a solid phalanx of chamberlains, courtiers, and serfs. The men wore kilts dyed black with the juice of the Vrélq-mollusc; the women were attired in flounced skirts and over-cloaks of fine Güdru-cloth that left the right arm and shoulder bare, displaying golden armlets that bore repoussé clan symbols set with gems.

The woman stepped forward. She was tall and angular, flat-chested, big-boned, and masculine. Her costume consisted of a collar of lacquered Chlén-hide from the back of which a long strip of Thésun-gauze hung down between her legs and was carried up in front and clasped with an ornate brooch at her throat. A wide waist-sash of indigo brocade supported a belt-pouch, keys, a dagger, and other accoutrements. The woman stared, curled her lip, and asked, "You are Prince Zhurrilúgga Chruggilléshmu?" Her voice was as deep as any man's.

"I am he."

"I am Greshtla'úna Daqráshqinè, General of the 'Nchésh-the Legion-of the Worshipful Hand.' We have not met before."

"Under other circumstances I might have been happy to invite you into this palace."

She shrugged. "Do you know these others?"

He did not glance at her companions. "Does it matter?"

"They represent the Council of Nobles. Here are Lord Vindumákh Khekhkhéssa of the city of Héru, Lord Peshshumítru Shiggashko'ónmu of Jækánta-"

"Spare me. I do not require their names or pedigrees." Prince Zhurrilúgga raised his head to look behind the woman. "I see you have brought some Ahoggyá allies also."

She turned. "I did not summon them. Perhaps one of my colleagues...?"

The Ahoggyá entered in military formation: great, shambling, creatures like barrels, with four equally spaced arms and four splayed legs. On each side of their furry bodies they possessed eyes and other organs beneath a knobbed, curved carapace thick enough to stop a mace-blow. Their fur stank like swamp water. As fighters the Ahoggyá had no match, but as social companions they left much to be desired.

Prince Zhurrilúgga wagged a beringed finger. "I see one member of the Council is missing. Where is the representative of the city of Tsa'avtúlgu? Lord-um-I forget his name..."

One of the Council members sneered, "You know well where he is: dead, drawn and quartered, and hung up on the gates of the city like a Hmá-beast prepared for the roasting spit!"

"And rightly so! Is that not the proper Skein for the man who slew my uncle, our beloved King Griggatsétsa?"

"-Who was as mad as a drunken Tsi'íl-beast-!"

Prince Zhurrilúgga could not see who had spoken. He replied slowly: "-But who was King nevertheless! As long as he remained sound of body, the Ebon Throne was his! I suspect that some of you secretly cheered the fanatics of Tsa'avtúlgu when they dragged him down and slaughtered him!"

"A libellous accusation! We had nothing to do with his death-not that it was not to be desired!" This time Prince Zhurrilúgga recognised his accuser: Lord Marzhák Thirreqúmmu, one of the younger brothers of the High Lord of the city of Koylúga. "King Griggatsétsa was a puppet! You were the one who pulled his strings from behind the curtain!"

"If only you had left the succession to us!" another of the Council complained. "Instead, you attempted to steal the Ebon throne for yourself!"

Prince Zhurrilúgga snarled, "Of course I did! With the Tsolyáni looting our western provinces-with the Zrné-beasts of Tsa'avtúlgu in full cry against us, trying to split our beloved Salarvyá into pieces-with revolt and rebellion rampant on every side-did you think I would sit back and let you carrion-eaters play your games and plunder any baubles you could snatch?"

Another man stood forth from the group. He was thin, bitter-faced, and wore a breastplate of black-lacquered steel. Under his left arm he carried a conical helmet from which ebon plumes trailed down to the floor. "The succession belongs to me! I am the son of King Griggatsétsa. I am his heir!"

General Greshtla'úna scowled and bit her lip. "Prince Chekwtládu, you know that hereditary succession is not the custom in our land! The last son to take the throne directly from his father was King Góridza Khu'úmenè, who held power for only a few months before he was assassinated-and that occurred a thousand years ago!"

The members of the Council gazed warily at one another. Some murmured; others looked as though they wished they were elsewhere.

General Greshtla'úna considered. "Prince Chekwtládu, your claim is irrelevant now. We shall take it up again when the Council convenes after this affair today is concluded." She turned back to Prince Zhurrilúgga. "My Lord, you acted against all custom and practice. Unlike Prince Chekwtládu here, you not only espoused your claim verbally, you dispatched troops to see that your accession to the Ebon Throne could not be contested. Our Council of Nobles was to have been shunted off like a herd of Hmá-beasts into an abattoir! You would have ruled without legal justification, thus becoming a rebel as lawless as any fanatic from Tsa'avtúlgu!"

"And you are here to see that I pay for this 'rebellion' of mine?"

"It is so. We, the Council of Nobles, have come to put an end to your sedition."

"You would imprison me? Exile me to an island far away in the Great Mretténko'u Deeps? Would you blind me, cut out my tongue, and make me beg for my supper in some hamlet in the northern mountains?"

"You are clever. You would always find a way to return from any exile or escape from any prison. We have a simpler solution." General Greshtla'úna motioned to an older woman who also wore the vestments of the goddess Shiringgáyi.

Prince Zhurrilúgga smiled sadly. "Ah. Execution. A sorry Skein for one who has served Salarvyá for so long!"

"We see no alternative."

"My legion might object-the 'Nchésh of the Black Standard.'"

Another man replied: "They are in their bivouac under guard. You know me, Prince Zhurrilúgga. I do not raise my hand against you lightly!"

"So, Lord Snakkosháyyu, you return to Tsatsayágga? How many years did you skulk in your lair in Nrikakchné? You feared King Griggatsétsa while he lived, but now you are here to loot his corpse!"

Lord Snakkosháyyu grimaced and stroked a white moustache nearly two hands in length. Embarrassment and sorrow chased one other across his face. "The Council has decreed-"

"The Council! Tlá! As long as the King lived, the Council dared not speak my name without quaking! Now that he is gone, every little Banyé-beast pops out of its lair to steal the grain and rot the harvest!"

General Greshtla'úna snapped her fingers. "We have already decided! Let us get on with it!"

The second priestess bowed low and extracted a bundle of black-dyed cloth from beneath her mantle. This she unwrapped to reveal a massive two-handed sword.

"We have chosen this over less pleasant methods of execution. After all, you are a scion of the mighty Chruggilléshmu family..."

"How merciful!" Prince Zhurrilúgga's voice betrayed neither gratitude nor scorn.

"Remove your garments and crouch down upon your hands and knees."

"Chá! You speak of my high lineage and in the next breath you command me to strip myself naked, like a common cutpurse?"

"It is the law-"

"Leave him his clothing and his dignity," Lord Snakkosháyyu snapped. "Have him pull his robe down so that your butcher can strike a clean blow upon his neck."

General Greshtla'úna clicked her tongue against her teeth. "I care little. Let him keep his clothing! But he must kneel upon the dais where all can see." She gestured to the priestess with the sword. "Climb up there, Ménrin, and take your stance!"

The woman named Ménrin uttered a hiss of alarm. "Mistress, someone lurks behind the platform-a girl!"

General Greshtla'úna drew her sword. "Come out, whoever you are! Or must I send my escort to capture you?"

Dzé emerged from her hiding place and crawled forward to kneel upon the dais beside Prince Zhurrilúgga. "I-I am only a musician, Lady! A slave..."

"I have seen her in the palace!" Lord Snakkosháyyu cried. "She is his bitch-his whore! Slay her as well!"

General Greshtla'úna brushed her straggling locks back from her face. "You are correct. Witnesses all must favour us. Those who do not will pay the price." She waved at the Ahoggyá and the courtiers in the rear of the hall. "Out! All of you! It is not meet that you should watch a Chruggilléshmu die!"

Dzé moved to join the exodus, but the General extended her sword horizontally to prevent her. "Not you! You would run straight to our foes and report Prince Zhurrilúgga's death. He still has allies in the palace and in the city. Even the old 'First Heir,' Prince Tleggáshmu, still lives, although he is paralysed and unable to assume office. Some say it was you who poisoned him."

Dzé turned again to flee, but the General forestalled her. "You are his slave, girl. Go and serve your Prince in the Goddess Shiringgáyi's 'Garden of Eternal Verdure!' Kneel beside your master! -Ménrin, slay this girl first so that she need not watch her owner die!"

Prince Zhurrilúgga pulled the collar of his heavy robe aside and knelt. He put a hand over his face, covering his eyes and his nose.

With the other hand, he touched a stone set in the parquet floor before him.

A fine white powder drifted down out of tiny apertures in the ceiling.

General Greshtla'úna shrieked a warning; she had no time to do more. Her limbs convulsed, froth bubbled at her lips, and she died where she stood. Two members of the Council hurled themselves backwards, collided, and fell struggling upon the floor. Lord Snakkosháyyu gagged, turned bright red, fumbled for his sword, and collapsed. Some of the courtiers at the rear of the hall managed to reach the double doors but found them locked. One soldier, stronger than his comrades, seized a halberd and struck three or four blows at the bronze-bound portals before he, too, doubled over and perished.

It was finished in a matter of moments. Only silent bundles of bright-hued cloth lay scattered upon the mosaic like discarded dolls.

Prince Zhurrilúgga took Dzé into his arms. "I am sorry..."

"My mouth tastes bitter..." The girl licked her lips. "Am I to die as well?"

"The poison is Ssalán-root. It kills quickly. There is no pain." He held her tightly. "If I had known you would be here, I would have arranged for you to receive the antidote -- Ardúro-bark. Alas, it is too late." He looked around the room helplessly.

"I-I feel the convulsions coming!" She drew his head down close to her mouth. "I must tell you-a way is prepared for you to escape-a ship in the harbour-it will take you to Fort Órmichash, far away along the eastern coast."

"I did not know you would be the messenger! Which ship? How shall I know it?"

"She is a Srügánta-class warship-the 'Pallióru.' Her captain is an officer of the 'Nchésh of the Sea-Grey Wave.' Your friends paid much-" Dzé coughed and licked her lips. "I-I-am dying, master..."

"Poor little Dzé!" Prince Zhurrilúgga bent and kissed her.

She clutched his wrist. "The harbour guards will lead you to the ship. Give them the password: Chgéshsha-your Salarvyáni word for 'king.'" She turned her head away and lay still.

Prince Zhurrilúgga arose and padded over to the ornate wall panelling at the back of the room. There he opened a secret door and was gone.

After a time, Dzé lifted her head. She spat out a wad of blackish bark, jumped to her feet and gazed at the contorted bodies around her.

"You are silent now, you mighty lords!" she whispered. "As it says in the 'Epic of Hrúgga': 'When a king dies, his passing thunders like a wave against the shore: a thousand seashells are broken, and a myriad tiny creatures scurry helplessly to and fro...'"