“Credibility,” Borenson said. “You destroy his credibility.
“And how do you fight such a war?” Myrrima asked.
“Rules simple: you cannot lie to destroy man’s credibility. That civilized way. You must...unmask deceit before witnesses. Once contest begin, it must end within one year.”
“And you call this war?” Myrrima asked.
Borenson answered, “Don’t be fooled. They take gizareth ki very seriously. A man is defined by his word, by his honesty. There are men here, truthsayers, who train for decades to learn how to tell when someone is lying or telling the truth. When you declare war on someone, you can hire one or more truthsayers to denounce the person. They’ll dig up every noble thing that the person has ever done, and then shout about it in the public square. Everyone will gather around to listen, because they know that the truthsayers are just warming up. For once they’ve discussed your virtues, they’ll denounce your vices in such excruciating detail that...well, many a prince has thrown himself down a well. And once they’re done with you, they’ll repeat it again, and again, and again.”
“For one year,” the guard said. “At end of year, must stop. And victim may retaliate; he hire own truthsayers. Once person suffer at truthsayer, he cannot be made to suffer again for ten years.”
“And what do you accomplish by destroying a man’s honor?” Myrrima asked.
“If lucky,” the guard said, “victim will change, grow. There prince in legend, Assenian Shey, who was called to war by brother. Truthsayers, they denounce his vices—” The guard counted them off on his fingers. “He waste talent, cruel to animals, glutton, let father die after robbers waylay him. The list, it grow endless. Everyone agree that young prince shameless. Still, he manage hold place of power. When his mother died, he become king.
“Ten years pass. The king’s brother hire truthsayers once again. After careful examination, truthsayers spoke only of king’s virtues. This bring great shame to jealous brother.
“So, you see,” the guard concluded, “here we civilized. Here, not all battles end with death. We can make war on man’s estate, or on his sanity. This is way of civilized people.”
“Hmmmph,” Borenson grunted. “You talk about your warfare as if it were more virtuous, but not all of your stories end so well. I’m familiar with the eighty-two forms of war. In the milder forms, you seek to destroy only a man’s wealth, or vanity, or reputation, but in the most heinous form, the makouthatek ki, you’re not satisfied with killing just one person, you seek to erase both his future and his past. You plunder his holdings, humiliate him before his people, butcher his wife and children so that he does not leave seed in the earth, put him to death, and destroy all those who dare even mention his name. I agree with you that war is a shameful thing, but you Inkarrans haven’t found a way to avoid the horrors of war, you’ve just perfected them.”
“Be careful such talk,” the guard warned Borenson in a voice edged with anger. “Some say forms of war should expand, that in addition to make war on city or family, we should entomb entire nations.”
Borenson laughed dangerously. “I’d like to meet those folks.”
“Then you in luck,” the guard said. “You will.”
“What do you mean?” Myrrima asked with worry in her voice. “Is the Storm King one of those people?”
“He no love Rofehavan, but he not one of those people. Still, you will visit during...kamen to, festival for pay tribute. Lords from all Inkarra must appearance. You surely meet some who wish destroy your kind.”
Borenson fell asleep to the sound of water lapping against the hull of the boat, and near dawn he woke as the Inkarrans on the boat began to stir. Sometime in the night, the cloud cover had broken above them, and stars shone now. Heaven was giving them another fiery display. Dozens of shooting stars streaked through the sky in a perpetual blaze.
Borenson could smell a sea breeze, a smell that always reminded him of home, and he could hear the roaring of a great waterfall ahead. To the north, the heavens shone down on a great city. Patches of farm were laid out in neat squares, and he could see the ghostly Inkarrans working their fields by night.
They had reached the outskirts of the Storm King’s capital. The boat soon pulled into some busy docks, where fisherman unloaded their catches of the night. The guards ushered Borenson and Myrrima off the boat, and into the dusty streets.
Here in the city, draktferions lit the hilltops. The guards steered him toward the tallest hill, where hundreds of the fierce lizards blazed. Borenson knew that he had reached Iselferion, the Palace of Fire. The road leading up was paved with cobblestones, unlike all other roads that he’d seen in Inkarra, and the sprawling trees and grounds were well maintained.
As he reached the bottom of the hill, he could see an enormous stele, with a three-pointed crown atop it, that announced the Storm King’s residence.
The guard led them up a gentle slope, and then down a tunnel that stopped at an iron gate.
Borenson had never been inside an Inkarran burrow. The mouth of the tunnel was wide enough so that several people could walk abreast, but not so wide that one could drive carts into it. An iron gate guarded the mouth of the burrow. Spikes hammered into the gate were meant to keep out even a charging elephant. The gate was open, and they went down a long corridor. Kill holes and archery slots could be seen in the walls. No sconces lit the way. Borenson’s tiny lantern gave the only light. The only sound was a distant boom as waves crashed against the rocks at the base of the cliff. The surrounding blackness became complete as the guards led Borenson and Myrrima into the palace of the Storm King.
They passed through several darkened antechambers, each descending several hundred feet, when at last a door opened into a vast room. It was enormous, oval in shape, with high ceilings. Its plastered walls had been painted white, and equidistant around this chamber hung a dozen Inkarran lanterns, similar to the one that Borenson carried. Within the chamber, Inkarrans milled about. Most of them seemed drunk, as if returning from a night of revelry, and many laughed. He saw men in their strange tunics, often being held by women in long dresses. They spoke among themselves in whispers, and shot curious glances at Borenson and Myrrima.
In the far corners, merchants had thrown carpets on the floor of the room, and sat hawking bolts of cloth, food, armor, just about anything one might find during a fair.
“As see,” the guard whispered, “lords here from many land.”
Borenson could hardly see the Inkarrans at all. The lamplight was too dim to suit his human eyes. Nor was he certain that he could tell the dress of a lord from that of a pauper.
The guards turned them over to an officious fellow who led them down some long corridors in near total darkness, until at last they reached what Borenson figured was an audience room. There, two women in white dresses came and cut off his long red hair, using sharp metal scrapers. Borenson sat transfixed. Both women were beautiful. He could not help but inhale their strange, exotic scent. Their bodies seemed to have been rubbed in oil perfumed with orchids. When they finished with Borenson’s head, they shaved his eyebrows, but left his beard. They laughed at the effect, and then left, and the guard escorted them to another chamber.
This room was different from those before. It had a single lamp in the center, and several large stones lay about it. By the stones’ size and the way that they lay strewn about, he wasn’t sure if they were adornments or if they were meant to be used as chairs. One corner of the room had a little pool in it, and a stream tinkled down from some rocks, so that the whole room smelled of water. Fresh herbs had been strewn on the floor, and from some dark corner a cricket sang. Borenson could discern large crabs scuttling about in the pools.