A week later, the news came that Inentai had fallen.
Geder
If the siegecraft of Baltan Sorris is to be understood, it must be in the context of Drakkis Stormcrow, for General Sorris was a student of the ancient classic texts. The more common, and in my view mistaken, interpretation is that the early kings of Northcoast had catapults and siege engines capable of lofting stones or burning pitch so high into the air that all parts of a besieged city were under threat from them. What I have shown is that, instead, the instructions Sorris gave were an unconsidered artifact of more ancient wars in which the field of battle was not restricted to the plane of the earth, but included dragons, wyverns, and gryphons capable of attacking from the sky. While this image of Sorris as a hidebound follower of outdated precepts contradicts the traditional account of his military brilliance, I will, in the next section, make the case that it better explains his decisions in the latter half of his career, especially in the Third Siege of Porte Silena and the infamous Four Kings War.
Geder closed the book and sighed. It happened every few weeks. He would find some spare hour that could be carved away from the needs and responsibilities of the kingdom and retreat to his library. He remembered spending hours—days—lost in his books. There had been a time when exploring the speculative essays of history had been like the adventurer Dar Cinlama walking in the forgotten places of the world, discovering forgotten eras and stumbling upon insights that changed his understanding of history. It had brought him to the Righteous Servant, the Sinir Kushku, and the place of highest power in the world. But the price, apparently, was the joy he used to have and couldn’t find any longer. Basrahip derided all printed words as dead, and Geder found the position more and more persuasive. In all his books, there had been only a few mentions of the spider goddess. None at all of the fire years. Or of the oppression of the goddess and her followers by the dragons. Or their flight from the ancient lands that had become Birancour. The true history of the world was preserved in the temple at the edge of the Keshet, and so far as Geder could see, nowhere else. What evidence was there, after all, that Baltan Sorris had studied Drakkis Stormcrow? Or that Sorris had even existed, for that matter? The battles and struggles and intrigues of history might be nothing more than make-believe given dignity by print.
In that light, Geder’s personal library seemed empty. Not a field rich with truths to be uncovered, but a desert where if there were any truths, they were indistinguishable from lies. It was a conclusion he reached over and over again, forgetting every time, then going back and disappointing himself again. Perhaps it was time to find some other pursuit to distract him from the burdens of rulership.
Perhaps he could learn to play music.
“Lord Regent?”
“Yes, I know,” Geder said. “I’m coming.”
The chamber had been a ballroom once, before Geder had appropriated it. The tiers of benches that rose up on three walls had once been intended for men and women of nobility to take their rest while still seeing and being seen. Now Geder’s personal guard stood there, swords and bows at the ready. Where the wooden parquet that had supported some forgotten generation of dancers had splintered and warped, Geder had had black stone put in. The graceful lamps and candleholders he’d replaced with dark iron sconces and pitch-stinking torches. His own seat rose high above the floor, like a magistrate’s counter, only higher, wider, and grander. Basrahip’s station was across the way, where Geder could glance up from the prisoner and have the priest tell him whether the statements were lies or truth. He’d used it first to assure himself of the loyalty of his guards, and then of his subjects. The noble classes of Asterilhold were still being brought, one by one, through the chamber, and while the constant repetition of questions—Are you loyal to me? Are you plotting against the throne?—sometimes became tedious, the pleasure of catching out a liar never lost its charm.
Abden Shadra had been head of the one of the most powerful of the traditional families. His sons and daughters, nephews and nieces and cousins had controlled almost a third of the nation that had once been Sarakal. He knelt on the black floor without even the strength left to rise. His hair was white against his dark scales, his lip swollen. Bruises didn’t look like bruises on Timzinae. The blood pooling under their skin shoved the scales up and stretched them. Abden Shadra’s left arm looked almost like a sausage because of it. The rags that hung from his shoulders might have been fine robes once. They were certainly humbled now.
Geder leaned forward on his elbows, looking down at the man.
“You know who I am?” Geder asked.
The Timzinae’s gaze swam up and up until it found him. Even then, it seemed that he lost his train of thought, forgot the question and then remembered it. He licked his lips.
“Palliako,” he said.
“Yes, good,” Geder said. “Tell me about your part in the plot against my life.”
Abden Shadra swallowed, worked his mouth like he was trying to expel some foul taste from it. Even from where he sat, Geder could hear the dry clicking of tongue against teeth. The man’s eyes shifted to the left and then the right and then back again. Geder felt the stirrings of hope, of excitement.
“You started the war,” Abden Shadra said. “We didn’t attack you.”
“No. Before that,” Geder said. “Did you meet with Dawson Kalliam?”
“Never met him.”
Geder glanced up, and Basrahip nodded. It was true.
“Did you meet with his agents?”
“No.” True.
“Did you conspire to have me or Prince Aster killed?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“A great lot of your own people.” Geder didn’t bother looking at Basrahip for that one.
“Who in Sarakal? Who among the Timzinae?”
“I don’t know of anyone,” the man said. “You could talk to Silan Junnit. He had a reputation for caring about you people.” Geder glanced up. True. And interesting. He added a name to the list he had built. Silan Junnit. He’d have to see if that was one of the prisoners he’d taken. He’d had a few suggestions like this before, but more often than not, the person named was already dead. It was frustrating. The conspiracy always seemed on the edge of exposure, and then it would dance just out of reach. It never seemed to be the person he’d captured, but one they knew of or had heard about.
It frustrated him. And it frightened him more than a little.
“Will you swear to take no action against Antea, the Severed Throne, me, or Aster?”
“I will. If that’s what you want from me, I’ll do it.” Basrahip hesitated, shrugged, nodded. It was true. Geder’s eyes narrowed. This was always the hardest part, but he felt he was genuinely getting better at it.
“Would you mean it?”
“Yes.” Basrahip shook his head. No. He wouldn’t, and he knew he wouldn’t, and now Geder knew it too. It was as predictable as it was disappointing.
“Take him back to his cell,” Geder said. “Bring in the next one.”
Two guards stepped forward and hoisted Abden Shadra by his shoulders.
“No!” the Timzinae said. “I’ll swear whatever you want! I’ll do what you say, just don’t send me back there.”
Geder leaned forward.
“You,” he said coldly, “don’t get to lie to me. Take him back.”