Chapter Four

  A Dance of Thieves and Whores

  King Victus sat in an understated outfit of khakis. He was not dressed half so finely as the shahs and rajahs who sat with him. Many colonial heads of state were there to visit with the king. It was only the second such visit that any Vastrum monarch had made to the eastern colonies. He had brought a considerable part of his court with him. Most of the courtiers were dressed the same as the king, appropriately for a safari, while the rulers of his colonies each wore their very finest garb in the presence of the king of Vastrum. Many wore turbans or crowns bedecked with jewels, fine colourful silks, flowing robes and tailored suits. They had worn their very best, intent on impressing King Victus, their de facto ruler.

  The officers of the army who had been invited on the hunt, led by Generals Haddock, the recently promoted V.A.C. commander, General Hood, Brigadier Belfair, and Colonel Havor, stood off to the side watching as a man with a device took what he called a heliogram. Usually, this portrait would be recorded in a painting, and the sitting might take hours. The device, known as a heliograph, could record the moment in a mere thirty minutes. It only required the subject of the portrait to sit very still for the whole time. A box with a lens resembling a spyglass, set upon a tripod, sat still as the heliographer attended to his strange machine. Khathan had expected it to make a noise, or move, or perhaps vibrate like a steam engine. Instead, it only sat there quietly, doing its work.

  Captain Dar Khathan of the 13th Dragoons had never dreamt of such inventions. It was a marvellous modern age. He wondered if such splendid creations would ever make their way to his home in Gulud, nearly a thousand miles southwest of Ayodh. While he and the other Guludan sepoys in the army had more in common with the people of Ayodh, this land and its people were their ancestral rivals, and they were very far from home indeed. That was the way of empire, he had found. Every soldier was moved from place to place; few were ever stationed in the land where they were born. That was true even for the Vastrum men, who were sent to the other side of the world to fight in distant colonies. Now, these strange people were bringing wonders like steam power and heliographs. He was under no illusions, however, that these wonders were reserved exclusively for the use of the wealthy Vastrum colonists. His musings and doubts about whether these inventions would ever come to Gulud were cut short. The heliographer was wrapping up his work. Somewhere in the throng of the king’s entourage, a marching band began to play. It was time for the king to greet his officers.

  The king stepped forward towards the soldiers. He was an older man but not yet elderly, balding and slightly overweight with a pockmarked face. Still, he was not particularly imposing, and his pith helmet seemed too large for his head. He had the red nose of a drinker and the pale face of a man who had spent no time in the sun. He seemed to float between each person and activity like a man with no care in the world. The army officers led by General Haddock, including the Bloody 13th, were lined up and waiting for him. It was their time to meet the king. Captain Khathan stood tall and at attention along with his comrades. King Victus slowly moved down the line of officers, beginning with Haddock. Khathan could not hear their words, but Haddock bowed low, and the two men shared a laugh like old friends, then shook hands. The king moved along to Belfair. Again, they smiled and shared a laugh. Victus slapped the man on the back like they, too, were old friends. One officer after another, he did the same. The men bowed to the king. Some he spoke a few polite words to before moving on, others he smiled with and shook their hands. Finally, he was within earshot as he went along the long line of officers, greeting them.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Lord Havor, Majesty.” His commander said, bowing low.

  “Ahh, Lord Havor, I know your father. I saw you last, what, when you were in your adolescence, did I not?”

  Havor smiled, “Yes, Majesty. It is an honour to serve in your own regiment, sire.”

  “Roonies maltreated you, did they?”

  “Not so badly as they could have, Your Majesty,” Havor replied stoically.

  The king grunted at him and nodded, then moved on abruptly. The next man was the newly promoted Major Pugh, who bowed and introduced himself. “Were you the sole survivor?” He asked Pugh. He shook his head, “No, sir, Majesty, I was captured.”

  “Pity.” He said, then, “Do I know your father?”

  Pugh shook his head, “No, I do not believe so, Your Majesty.” As Khathan understood it, Pugh was from minor nobility, his father a lowly baronet. They were the lowest form of landed gentry, barely above a knight. It was similar to Khathan’s family back in Gulud. Men like them often used the military to climb higher.

  The king grunted again and moved on. He looked Dryden now straight in the eye. “You must be him.” He said.

  Dryden bowed low, “Yes, Majesty. I am Major Dryden of Starlington.”

  “Ahh, yes, I know your father, too. Have we met? I can't recall.”

  “We met when I was a child. You would not remember, I think, Majesty.”

  Khathan noticed that the king's retinue was quiet. Everyone was watching this meeting. Before, when the king had been meeting the other officers, there had been low talking and murmurs of conversation. Now, all eyes were fixed on Dryden and King Victus. Even the marching band had gone quiet.

  “No. Well, I thank you for your unwavering loyalty, Major. I am most proud of you. You survived where none else could. Your bravery and deeds will be written about for all time. You are, above all, the one man who saw what needed doing and did it with honour and distinction.”

  Khathan looked on quietly, listening to the king praise Dryden. The king called Dryden a lone survivor, but Captain Khathan had been there, too. He and a few Guludan soldiers under his command had also escaped. They had run and hidden in the mountains after the battle's movement had gone away from them. It had taken them weeks to sneak over the pass in the dead of night. They had survived on melted snow and snake meat. The Guludan soldier remembered looking back through the musket smoke as the sun rose, seeing the lines of Vastrum men escaping up the slope behind him, marching into the raking jezzail fire of the enemy entrenched atop the mountain pass. He had volunteered himself and his men to stay and die. He had told his men they could fight their way free, that the guns at Golconda might hold some protection for them. He had lied. He knew they would die. When the smoke of the Guludan muskets had cleared, he found himself and a few men clinging to their ground stubbornly. Low on ammunition and with bloody bayonets, they carved a path to the hills overlooking the fort. The enemy had given chase, of course, and might have had them. But then the mountain moved and rumbled, and they watched as a great slide of ice and rock tore down the far side of the pass, and their small group was forgotten. His survival was as much luck as skill and fortitude. He expected that Dryden’s was much the same. All these memories flashed through his head while Dryden and the king spoke.

  “Thank you, Majesty. I am honoured to serve.” Dryden said at last.

  The king came next to Mar, the wizard, who bowed and introduced himself, “Marten Pyke, War Wizard in his Majesty’s Service, attached to the 13th Dragoons.”

  “And you were captured as well, I take it?” The king asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Mar answered.

  The king frowned, “Well, you were, or you weren’t.”

  “I made it over the pass with the Major, but I fell and was captured by slavers. The Major rescued me after the Siege of Andaban.” Mar explained. The truth was much more complicated, and Khathan did not understand everything. He suspected that none understood the nature of it, possibly not even Mar himself.

  “Indeed? I suppose that’s where you lost your eye, then?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Mar confirmed. Again, it was not the whole truth; there was much more to the story. He had been blessed by a god of the north, a god of mountains and storms, and had thrown his eye into the pit at the Black City of Dau to rid himself of the blessing. Mar left it all out. Khathan supposed it was not the place to discuss those things. He wondered if the king or anyone at all amongst this crowd of courtiers, nobles, and envoys would believe what they had seen in The Kizil Steppe or The Kryval Wastes, Ghinai, or Vurun. Khathan was from a land with living gods and sorcery, and even he only half-believed some of what they had seen. Imagine the disbelief someone from a land of dead gods and stolen sorcery would have. Then the king was shaking Mar’s hand and moving to him.

  Khathan bowed deeply. “Captain Dar Khathan of the 13th Dragoons, Aju of Rakjat.” He said, giving his full title as a nobleman of his home in Gulud. As he understood it, Aju was the equivalent of a marquess in Vastrum, not an insignificant title in the peerage. He rarely received any recognition from Vastrum men, even those who otherwise treated him with respect, such as Major Dryden. He wondered if they had even made the effort to know this about him.

  “Aren’t you a stout fellow?” The king commented dryly. Then, turning to a man shadowing him, the king asked, “Charles, do we allow natives in the king’s cavalry now?”

  The courtier responded softly and quickly, “This man was a hero at Golconda. He was raised up to acknowledge his heroism and to fill the captaincy due to the number of casualties among the officers in Vurun. He has comported himself notably, receiving commendations from his commanders. I would add that he is nobility in Gulud.” He said this last bit as if he were dangling a prize for the king.

  “Yes, yes, very good. Captain Kathin, was it? Very pleased indeed.” The king sounded anything but pleased. He did not extend his hand to Khathan as to every other officer, merely acknowledged him with a slight nod.

  The Guludan captain bowed again. He could not make these people see him for what he was. He knew that. He was no fool. Perhaps he could use his station to help his people, or perhaps not. He had been given a second chance at life. He should have died there in the Korum mountains during the retreat from Vurun several times over. He thought of the men he left behind. He thought of those precious few who had survived with him. He had sent the handful of surviving Guludan soldiers home to their families when the siege of Andaban was finally lifted. He hoped they were not wasting a moment with their loved ones. He did not care that none acknowledged his survival as they did Dryden. What need had Dar Khathan of celebrity among the people of Vastrum? His own people knew him well enough. Someday, he would return home, marry, and make his mark in Rakjat. Until then, he would fight with honour and fury. Perhaps that would be enough to make him seen.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

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  “One is bad enough! A whole squadron of natives in the 13th? I bloody think not!” Brigadier General Belfair roared over the king’s banquet. Heads turned to him from across the sprawling banquet hall. The Brigadier looked about the room and shrank back slightly, suddenly aware of the scene he was making. The Brigadier was in a heated conversation with General Haddock and Colonel Havor. Dryden winced and tried to ignore the man. If there was one officer who had survived the dungeons in Vurun that Dryden regretted rescuing, it was Belfair. He was a strict disciplinarian, which would have been acceptable if it were not paired with utter incompetence and a complete lack of accountability for himself. He held large grudges for small personal slights. He was quick to the lash and slow to reward. He was responsible for much of the tactical blundering on their attempted escape from Vurun that cost so many lives. General Blackwater, the other commander, was dead now, so all that scorn now fell solely on Belfair. Dryden and most of the officers of the 13th despised him utterly. Belfair loathed them in return, if for no other reason than he resented their hatred. With the way he blustered and the power he held, the Brigadier was a hard man to ignore.

  While Dryden was focused on the now-quiet argument between his senior officers, he did not notice someone had come up behind him. A hand gently touched his shoulder. “Major," a familiar deep voice spoke. He turned. It was the man from the steamship.

  With a start, he turned, trying to remember the man’s name, “Ahh, George Sterling. What are you...” Dryden stood to shake his hand.

  The man smiled ruefully, chuckled, and cut him off, “Ahh, I’m sorry that I have deceived you, John. I was travelling under an alias. I am Edward.” He took John’s hand, “Apologies.”

  John blushed and took his hand. “Edward of Gaunt? You’re the king’s brother.” He said softly, half to himself in shock as if the man did not know very well who he was. “Highness,” he began to bow to the prince.

  Edward smiled, “Indeed. No, don’t bow. I don’t want that. Edward will do. I hate all that rubbish. I travel under aliases to avoid all the bowing and scraping. You should know, John, that I have asked that you attend me tomorrow in the hunt. You will be in my party.” Then he turned to Julia, who was conversing with her friend Helena Belfair, “Won’t you introduce me, John.”

  “Julia,” Dryden said. She looked up at him. Her red hair swished as she turned, her green eyes gazed up at him, and her emerald earrings caught in the light. She truly was a great beauty. He smiled down at her. How he wished Julia would return the smile. “What?” She said haughtily, glancing at Edward.

  “I want to introduce you. Prince Edward of Gaunt, this is my wife Julia.”

  Her face and tone changed immediately as she realised who the man was. She stood quickly and quietly and curtsied deeply, “Your Highness.” Edward did not correct her about his title as he had with Dryden.

  “Very pleased to meet you. I won’t interrupt your conversation with Lady Belfair. I simply had to meet you. I think very highly of your husband and wish you all the best in your marriage to him. He is a man, I think, who could climb very high indeed with the right hand guiding him.” It was the first time anyone of significance had ever given any blessing to their marriage.

  Julia smiled and curtsied again, then sat to continue her conversation with Helena.

  Dryden blushed at the public praise, “Thank you for the kind words… Edward.” He had to force himself not to use the Prince’s formal title.

  “Think nothing of it, John. As dinner is winding down, won’t you join us for a cigar in the drawing room?”

  “Nothing would please me more, Edward.” He made a point to use his name as the prince had asked. It felt unnatural.

  Some servants were clearing plates and filling drinks about the great banquet hall. King Victus stood at the head of the table and clinked his fork on a glass. “Thank you all for joining us this evening for this splendid dinner. I hope some of the gentlemen will join me for whisky and cigars. To our ladies, you are the stars in the sky by which we navigate our lives. You are goddesses, one and all! I will try not to keep your men out too late. Tomorrow, we will hunt like few men have ever hunted! I bid you all a good night and, for those not joining me for a drink, a good hunt ‘pon the ‘morrow!” There was a lot of polite clapping from the assembled nobles, officers, and their wives.

  “I will be joining the men for cigars, Julia,” Dryden said, bowing to his wife.

  “When will you be joining me in our room?”

  “I will not be long,” Dryden answered, “But if you are asleep when I arrive, then I wish you good night.”

  She frowned at the idea that she might be asleep when he arrived.

  “I will not keep your husband long,” Edward smiled at her, then took John by the elbow and led him from the banquet hall. A few other men, mostly high lords or generals, joined them. They followed the king down a wide hallway into a large drawing room with many sofas, tables, and chairs arranged in several groupings. Along one wall was a bar, behind which were many bottles of liquor and wine. Two modest crystal chandeliers lit the room, which was somewhat dim. Edward led Dryden to where the king was seated.

  “Ahh, the man of the hour.” The king smiled at him, “Please, Major, sit, sit.” He gestured to a seat across from him.

  “Your Majesty,” Dryden bowed, then sat.

  Edward sat next to his brother. Another man came and sat next to Dryden. General Haddock came and took the last seat in the group of sofas and chairs.

  “Allow me to introduce Lord Robert Blakely,” Edward said, gesturing to the man Dryden did not know. Lord Robert Blakely. That was the governor-general of the eastern colonies, from Vurun in the north to Dravan in the south, Huz in the west, and Ayodh in the east.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Dryden said, nodding in the governor’s direction.

  “Charmed,” Lord Blakely replied, his tone cold.

  A servant appeared with glasses of whisky and a selection of cigars. He handed glasses around and then opened the box of cigars. He let the king select first. He chose a small, thin cigar with a red label. Edward chose the same. Haddock chose a long, thick cigar. Lord Blakely chose a medium cigar that was rich and dark in colour. Dryden looked at the selection. He was not a regular smoker. “What do you recommend?” He asked Edward.

  “When in doubt, have what the king is having.” The prince said, smiling. He waggled his own cigar as a demonstration of the advice.

  All the men seated there chuckled, including King Victus. Dryden couldn’t help but laugh with them, “You make a good point, sir.” He selected the same.

  The servant cut the cigars and lit them for each man in turn. Dryden drank a sip from his whisky as they waited. The drink was served neat in a crystal glass. The liquid was dark, oily, and somewhat sweet with a heavy smokiness. He took a small puff off his cigar when it was lit. The smoke was silky, sweet, and hot in his mouth.

  “So, that business in Vurun. What was it like?” King Victus asked Dryden once they had settled in.

  The question was so vague that Dryden was unsure how to respond for a moment, “Well, it was bloody. We lost many good men. It was only luck that I survived, and others should not.”

  “So modest,” Haddock replied, “I have it on good authority from eyewitnesses that you were a force of nature commanding the 13th once Havor was captured and again once Havelock was killed while retaking the city. I saw the latter for myself.”

  Dryden thought it bizarre that Haddock would refer to what they had done to Vurun as “retaking” it. They had burned it, torn it to the ground, slaughtered the population, and left it to rot. Not even the Fyrins were interested now.

  “How would you like to command your own regiment one day soon?” King Victus asked.

  Lord Blakely frowned at the suggestion. He was displeased with the destruction of Vurun. Not because he cared for the city but because of the loss of the aethium supply and its income. While he was the king’s man, he was deeply entwined with the Vastrum Aethium Company, known as the V.A.C. or sometimes just The Company. Blakely was displeased with any officer involved, from Haddock down to men like Dryden. Though Dryden had never met the man before, it was Blakely, along with Belfair, who had already stopped his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel.

  There had been a time when he would have jumped at such an opportunity, but he had felt the weight of command twice now, both temporarily. It was a heavy burden. “I do not know if command suits me, Majesty. If the choice is mine, then perhaps one day. I will serve however my king requires.”

  The king nodded, “One day, then.” He changed subjects. “I understand you will be with my brother for the hunt tomorrow?”

  “Indeed, majesty.”

  Edward sipped his whisky, turned, and waved another man over from the bar. This man was not wearing a fine tuxedo like everyone else. He was still dressed in the khaki safari outfit, though he lacked the characteristic pith helmet that often marked colonials. “I want you to meet Connall Baine, the Old Salgair himself.”

  “The hunter?” Dryden replied. The man was famous and had published books on his explorations and hunts in the East.

  “Just so, Major. He will be leading our hunting party tomorrow.”

  The man loomed over the seated Edward. He was a tall man, grizzled and swarthy. He sported a shaggy beard across his strong jaw that jutted out. From under the beard, he had a deep pink scar across half his face where something had clawed him badly, just missing his right eye. His face was deeply creased, and light blue eyes peeked out under thick grey eyebrows. His salt and pepper hair was slightly curly and unkempt. He held a markedly different posture from the other gentlemen in the sitting room, like an eagle among preening peacocks.

  Dryden stood to shake the man’s hand. Of the men in the room, the only man the hunter did not tower over was Dryden himself, who was rather tall. They were of the same height and build. They shook. The man had something of a grip. Dryden returned it. The old hunter stared into Dryden’s eyes while they shook, sizing him up.

  “You’re a strapping laddie, ain’t ye?” He said suddenly as a grin cracked his face. He spoke with the accent of the Western Isles.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Dryden said as they shook, grinning back at him.

  “Baine here has killed more than two dozen tigers and twice that many leopards. He led a trip into Rhakan and took two griffons last year. I understand that before you came to Ayodh, you were in the far south, and I heard a rumour that you took a wyvern down in Durzan?”

  “Aye. The nasty bastard gave me this.” He pointed to his scar, “We was protecting the building of a bridge across the Kambez River down between Durzan and Gurawesi. Wyverness was taking native lads from the work crew, see? One of my mates wounded her and shot her through the wing with a blunderbuss. Well, we all thought she was run off, so my mates and I got roaring fou, but the gammy cunt came flying back and attacked our tents while we were sleepin’ off the horrors. Got two of me boys and nearly got me, see? Oh, but we got her in the end, didn’t we?” He pulled a leather strap around his neck from under his shirt, on which was a considerable stinger from the end of a wyvern’s tail. “Me trophy.” The man laughed.

  King Victus was listening to the tale raptly. When it was done, he clapped briefly, “What a clash it must have been.”

  “Indeed.” Haddock agreed dryly.

  “Oh, aye. A real scrap, your kingship, a veritable ballum rancum.”

  This comparison brought more laughter.

  “Well, we’re lucky you’re here. I expect the hunt will go splendidly.” The governor added as the laughter died.

  The hunter nodded to them, then turned and returned to his drinking at the bar. There was a slight commotion at the far end of the room. A man came in, Charles, the king’s secretary. He was walking swiftly. A guard behind him carried a large box. Charles’ face was grim. Dryden knew something was genuinely wrong at once. They stopped next to the king. Charles bowed.

  The king frowned, “Charles, I told you, no business tonight.”

  “Sire, this is important. We have received a message.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Majesty, you ought to receive this in private. I have seen the message for myself. I would not have come to deliver it unless it was of utmost import.”

  “Pish posh. I will receive it here. I am among gentlemen, officers, and friends.”

  “Sire, please, it is news of a very sensitive nature. This needs to be taken in…”

  “Charles!” the king raised his voice. “Now! I am enjoying diverting company, good whisky, and a fine cigar. Give me the message now, or leave it for the morning.”

  “Very well.” Charles said, his face pale, “The box.” He stepped aside, and the soldier handed the box to the king. “Sarawa Maw, the new Emperor of Rhakan, sends this with his laments.”

  The king took the box while scowling at his secretary. Without delay, King Victus lifted the lid and looked inside. His face went white, his eyes grew large, and his mouth fell open. His hands flew up, and he gasped and stood suddenly. The box flew from his lap as he rose and tumbled to the floor. The head of Nigel Thorpe, ambassador to Rhakan, rolled across the carpet and hit Governor Blakely’s foot. Blakely recoiled in horror. Haddock frowned and took a sip of his whisky. Edward covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. The head lay there, cold and green and rotting on the floor, tongue and cheeks swollen. There were gasps all around. Dryden looked down at the head impassively. He did not know the man and had never met him, but he knew well what this meant. War.

  The Old Salgair was the first to speak, grinning ear to ear, “Oi, Forget what I said before about the Wyvern. This is a real ballum rancum.”

  “What’s a ballum rancum?” A confused voice whispered in the dim parlour.