The Great Ordeal (Aspect-Emperor #3)(64)
“Nooo!” he cried to the prostrate form. The Twin Scimitars of Fanimry, the gold-on-black banner of his nation and faith, had been kicked across the floor, and now lay neglected beneath his feet, one more looted carpet. The White Horse on Gold, the famed Coyauri flag that Fanayal used as his personal standard yet hung, but scorched and tattered for the very battle that had laid Meppa low …
Malowebi had already overheard Fanayal’s wild desert warriors murmuring and arguing amongst themselves. The Whore Empress had done this, they said. Kucifra’s woman had struck the Last Cishaurim down …
“What will they say?” the Yatwerian witch cooed, still watching him from her settee. “How far can you trust them?”
“Bridle your tongue,” Fanayal murmured. He leaned as if hung from hooks, peering at his fallen Cishaurim. The Padirajah had wagered everything on the man that lay dying on his silk sheets below—every favour his God had afforded him.
The only real question now was what happened next.
Malowebi had known men like Fanayal in Zeum, souls that leaned more on things unseen than seen, that made idols of their ignorance so they might better strut and proclaim whatever court trifle they happened to covet unto obsession. From the very beginning of the man’s insurrection—for more than twenty years!—Fanayal ab Kascamandri had cast himself opposite Anas?rimbor Kellhus. Men cannot but measure themselves against their enemies, and the Aspect-Emperor was nothing if not … formidable. So Fanayal had styled himself the holy antagonist, the Chosen Hero, fated to slay dread Kucifra, the-Light-that-Blinds, the Demon who had broken the back of his faith and his race. He had set himself a task that only the alarming power of his Waterbearer could complete.
Despite his vanity, the eldest son of Kascamandri truly was an inspired leader—of that Malowebi had no doubt. But it was Meppa who had been the miracle, the Second Negotiant realized. The Last Cishaurim. Short of him, Fanayal and his desert horsemen could scarcely do more than hurl insults at the cyclopean walls of their Imperial Zaudunyani foes. Meppa had been the one to conquer Iothiah, not Fanayal. The bellicose son of Kascamandri had sacked a defenceless city, no more.
Without Meppa, Fanayal had no hope of overcoming the Imperial Capital. And so he found himself trapped in a contradiction of fact and ambition. Momemn’s monstrous black walls were all but impregnable. He could tarry, but there was no way to starve a coastal city into submission. Meanwhile, the countryside became ever more resolved against him. For all their grievances, the Nansur had not forgotten their generational hatred of the Kianene. Simply feeding his motley army was becoming ever more difficult, ever more bloody. Desertions, especially among the Khirgwi, were all but inevitable. Even as the Empress mustered and redeployed Columns, the Fanim army was sure to dwindle. Perhaps Fanayal could prevail in an open contest with an Imperial Zaudunyani army. Meppa’s sacrifice had killed the formidable Caxes Anthirul, at least; perhaps some fool would lead the Imperials in the Home Exalt-General’s stead. Perhaps the Bandit Padirajah could, with the dregs of his long-hunted desert people, conjure one of those miraculous victories that had been the glory of his ancestors …
But to what end, if the great cities of the Nansurium remained closed to him?
The circumstances could not be more dire, and yet Malowebi fairly cackled for pondering them. The usefulness of the Fanim only extended as far as their ability to challenge the Empire. Short of Meppa, then, High Holy Zeum had no use for Fanayal ab Kascamandri.
Short of Meppa, Malowebi could go home.
He was free. He had waited upon this growing cancer long enough. Time to forget these pompous and pathetic sausages—to begin plotting his revenge on Likaro!
“Your Grandees think you daring …” Psatma Nannaferi crooned. She reclined with opiate indifference across the settee, wearing a silk shift that clothed her alluring nethers in shadow, nothing more. “But now they see.”
Fanayal wiped a callused hand across the mud of his expression.
“Shut up!”
A screech that blooded throats, pimpled skin … and promised mayhem.
The Yatwerian witch growled in laughter.
Yes … Malowebi silently resolved. Time to leave.
The Dread Mother was here!
But he stood transfixed. The pavilion threshold lay no more than three paces behind him—he was fairly certain he could slip out without notice. Men like Fanayal rarely forgave those insolent enough to witness their weakness and hypocrisy. But they were also prone to punish the merest slights as mortal transgressions. As the son of a cruel father, Malowebi knew well how to be at once present and invisible.
“Yesss …” the Yatwerian witch cooed with lolling contempt. “The White-Luck conceals so very many things … so many frailties …”
She was right. Now that the number-sticks had finally betrayed him, what had seemed inspired audacity, even providence, stood revealed as recklessness. But why would she say such a thing? Why speak any truth at all, when it could only be provocation?
But this was the problem with all matters entangled in the machinations of the Hundred: the advantage was never to be seen.
Only madness.
Yes! Time to leave.
He could use his Cants to fold himself into the night, begin the long trek ho—
“Idolatrous whore!” Fanayal screamed, showering Meppa’s inert form with spittle. It betrayed the profundity of his horror, Malowebi realized, the way he chose to rage at the empty space before him rather than face the malevolent temptress. “This is your doing! Witch! The Solitary God rebukes me! Punishes me for taking you into my bed!”