Zenkappa began howling anew. Despite himself, Achamian smiled and bowed in return. Iryssas, he realized, was one of those men whose hatreds were far too whimsical to become the fixed point of an obsession. He could despise and embrace by guileless turns. Such men, Achamian had learned, inevitably mirrored the integrity or depravity of their lords.
“Besotted fool!” Xinemus cried at Iryssas. “Look at your eyes! More squint than a monkey’s asshole!”
Further paroxysms of laughter followed. This time Achamian found their hilarity irresistible.
But he laughed far longer than the others, wailing as though possessed by some demon. Tears of relief creased his cheeks. How long had it been?
The others grew quiet, watched as he struggled with his composure.
“It’s been too long,” Achamian at last managed. His breath shuddered as he exhaled. His tears suddenly stung.
“Far too long, Akka,” Xinemus said, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. “But you’re back and for a time free from the wiles of conniving men. Tonight, you can drink in peace.”
He slept fitfully that night. For whatever reason, heavy drinking at once intensified and deadened the Dreams. The way they slurred into one another made them seem less immediate, more dreamlike, but the passions that accompanied them . . . They were unbearable at the best of times. With drink they became lunatic with misery.
He already lay awake by time Paäta, one of Xinemus’s body-slaves, arrived with a basin of fresh water. While he washed, Xinemus pressed his grinning face through the flaps and challenged him to a game of benjuka.
Soon afterward, Achamian found himself sitting cross-legged on a thatched mat opposite Xinemus, studying the gilded benjuka plate between them. A sagging canopy sheltered them from the sun, which burned so bright that the surrounding encampment seemed a desert bazaar despite the chill. All that was missing, Achamian mused, were camels. Though most of the passersby were Conriyans from Xinemus’s own household, he saw all manner of Inrithi: Galeoth, stripped to the waist and painted for some festival that apparently confused winter for summer; Thunyeri, sporting the black-iron hauberks they never seemed to shed; and even an Ainoni nobleman, whose elaborate gowns looked positively ludicrous amid the welter of larded canvas, wains, and haphazard stalls.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Xinemus said, apparently referring to the sheer numbers of Inrithi.
Achamian shrugged. “Yes and no . . . I was at the Hagerna when Maithanet declared the Holy War. Sometimes I wonder whether Maithanet called the Three Seas or the Three Seas called Maithanet.”
“You were at the Hagerna?” Xinemus asked. His expression had darkened.
“Yes.” I even met your Shriah . . .
Xinemus snorted in the bullish way he often used to express disapproval. “Your move, Akka.”
Achamian searched Xinemus’s face, but the Marshal seemed thoroughly absorbed by the geometries of piece and possibility across the plate. Achamian had agreed to the game knowing it would drive the others away, and so allow him to tell Xinemus about what had happened in Sumna. But he’d forgotten how benjuka tended to bring out the worst in them. Every time they played benjuka, they bickered like harem eunuchs.
Benjuka was a relic, a survivor of the end of the world. It had been played in the courts of Trysë, Atrithau, and Mehtsonc before the Apocalypse, much as it was studied in the gardens of Carythusal, Nenciphon, and Momemn now. But what distinguished benjuka was not its age. In general, there was a troubling affinity between games and life, and nowhere was this affinity more striking, or more disturbing, than in benjuka.
Like life, games were governed by rules. But unlike life, games were utterly defined by those rules. The rules were the game, and if one played by different rules, then one simply played a different game. Since a fixed framework of rules determined the meaning of every move as a move, games possessed a clarity that made life seem a drunken brawl by comparison. The proprieties were indubitable, the permutations secure; only the outcome was shrouded.
The cunning of benjuka lay in the absence of this fixed framework. Rather than providing an immutable ground, the rules of benjuka were yet another move within the game, yet another piece to be played. And this made benjuka the very image of life, a game of baffling complexities and near poetic subtleties. Other games could be chronicled as shifting patterns of pieces and number-stick results, but benjuka gave rise to histories, and whatever possessed history possessed the very structure of the world. Some, it was said, had bent themselves to the benjuka plate and lifted their heads as prophets.
Achamian was not among them.
He pondered the plate, rubbing his hands together for warmth. Xinemus taunted him with a nasty chuckle.
“Always so dour when you play benjuka.”
“It’s a wretched game.”
“You say that only because you try too hard.”
“No. I say that because I lose.”
But Xinemus was right. The Abenjukala, a classic text on benjuka from Ceneian times, began, “Where games measure the limits of intellect, benjuka measures the limits of soul.” The complexities of benjuka were such that a player could never intellectually master the plate and so force another to yield. Benjuka, as the anonymous author put it, was like love. One could never force another to love. The more one grasped for it, the more elusive it became. Benjuka likewise punished a grasping heart. Where other games required industrious cunning, benjuka demanded something more. Wisdom, perhaps.
With an air of chagrin, Achamian moved the only stone among his silver pieces—a replacement for a piece stolen, or so Xinemus claimed, by one of his slaves. Another aggravation. Though pieces were nothing more than how they were used, the stone impoverished his play somehow, broke the miserly spell of a complete set.
Why do I get the stone?
“If you were drunk,” Xinemus said, answering his move decisively, “I might understand why you did that.”
How could he make jokes? Achamian stared at the patterns across the plate, realizing that the rules had shifted yet again—this time disastrously. He searched for options but saw none.
Xinemus smiled winningly and began paring his nails with a knife. “Proyas will feel the same way,” he said, “when he finally arrives.” Something in his tone made Achamian look up.
“Why’s that?”
“You’ve heard of the recent disaster.”
“What disaster?”
“The Vulgar Holy War has been destroyed.”
“What?” Achamian had heard talk of the Vulgar Holy War before leaving Sumna. Weeks ago, before the arrival of the bulk of the Holy War, a number of great lords from Galeoth, Conriya, and High Ainon had decided to march against the heathen on their own. The moniker “vulgar” had been given to them because of the hosts of lordless rabble that followed. It had never occurred to Achamian to ask how it fared. It’s started. The bloodshed has started.
“On the Plains of Mengedda,” Xinemus continued. “The heathen Sapatishah, Skaurus, sent the tarred heads of Tharschilka, Kumrezzer, and Calmemunis to the Emperor as a warning.”
“Calmemunis? You mean Proyas’s cousin?”
“Arrogant, headstrong fool! I begged him not to march, Akka. I reasoned, I shouted, I even grovelled—abased myself like a fool!—but the dog wouldn’t listen.”
Achamian had met Calmemunis once, in the court of Proyas’s father. Outrageous conceit coupled with stupidity—enough to make Achamian wince. “Aside from thinking the God Himself stirred him, why do you think he marched?”
“Because he knew once Proyas arrived, he’d be little more than a fawning lapdog. He’s never forgiven Proyas for the incident at Paremti.”
“The Battle of Paremti? What happened?”
“You don’t know? I’ve forgotten how long it’s been, old friend. I’ve much gossip to share.”
“Later,” Achamian said. “Tell me what happened at Paremti.”
“Proyas had Calmemunis whipped.”
; “Whipped?” This concerned Achamian deeply. Had his old student changed so much? “For cowardice?”
As though he shared Achamian’s concern, Xinemus’s face darkened. “No. For impiety.”
“You jest. Proyas had a peer whipped for impiety? How far has his fanaticism gone, Zin?”
“Too far,” Xinemus said quickly, as though ashamed for his lord. “But for a brief time only. I was sorely disappointed in him, Akka. Heartbroken that the godlike child you and I had taught had grown to be a man of such . . . extremes.”
Proyas had been a godlike child. Over the four years he had spent as court tutor in the Conriyan capital of Aöknyssus, Achamian had fallen in love with the boy—even more than with his legendary mother. Sweet memories. Strolling through sunlit foyers and along murky garden paths, discussing history, logic, and mathematics, and answering a never-ending cataract of questions . . .
“Master Achamian? Where have all the dragons gone?”
“The dragons are within us, young Proyas. Within you.”
The knitted brow. The hands clenched in frustration. Yet another indirect answer from his tutor.
“So there are no more dragons in the world, Master Achamian?”
“You’re in the world, Proyas, are you not?”
Xinemus had been Proyas’s sword trainer at the same time, and it was through their periodic squabbles over the boy that they had come to respect each other. As much as Achamian loved the Prince, Xinemus—who nurtured the devotion he would need to serve the child as king—loved Proyas more. So much so that when Xinemus glimpsed the strength of the teacher in the pupil, he invited Achamian to his villa on the Meneanor Sea.
“You’ve made a child wise,” Xinemus had said, attempting to explain the extraordinary offer. Very rarely did caste nobles host sorcerers.
“And you’ve made him dangerous,” Achamian had replied.
They had found their friendship somewhere in the laughter that had followed.
“Fanatic for a time?” Achamian now asked. “Does that mean he’s regained his senses?”
Xinemus grimaced, absently scratched the side of his nose. “Somewhat. The Holy War and his acquaintance with Maithanet have rekindled his zeal, but he’s wiser now. More patient. More tolerant of weakness.”
“Your lessons, I imagine. What did you do?”
“I beat him until he was bloody.”
Achamian laughed.
“I’m quite serious, Akka. After Paremti I left the court in disgust. Wintered in Attrempus. He came to me, alone—”
“To beg forgiveness?”
Xinemus grimaced. “One would hope so, but no. He travelled all that way to upbraid me.” The Marshal shook his head and smiled. Achamian knew why: even as a child Proyas had been given to endearing excesses. Travelling alone two hundred miles simply to deliver a rebuke was something only Proyas would do.
“He accused me of abandoning him in his hour of need. Calmemunis and his crew had brought charges against him, both to the ecclesiastical courts and to the King, and for a while things went sour, though he was never in any real danger.”
“Of course you know he was only seeking your approval, Zin,” Achamian said, suppressing a twinge of envy. “He’s always worshipped you, you know—in his way . . . So what did you do?”
“I listened to him rant with what patience I could muster. Then I led him into the postern bailey and threw him a training sword. ‘You wish to punish me,’ I said, ‘so punish me.’” Xinemus smiled as Achamian roared with laughter.
“He was tenacious as a whelp, Akka, but he’s absolutely relentless now. He refused to yield. I’d knock him senseless, and he’d drag himself back up, soaked by blood and snow. Each time I’d say: ‘I’ve trained you as best as I know how, my Prince. Yet still you lose.’ Then he’d rush me again, yelling like a madman.
“The following morning he said nothing, avoided me like pestilence. But come afternoon he sought me out, his face bruised like apples. ‘I understand,’ he said. I asked him, ‘Understand what?’ ‘Your lesson,’ he replied. ‘I understand your lesson.’ I said, ‘Oh, and what lesson was that?’ And he said: ‘That I’ve forgotten how to learn. That life is the God’s lesson, and that even if we undertake to teach impious men, we must be ready to learn from them as well.’”
Achamian stared at his friend with candid awe. “Is that what you’d intended to teach him?”
Xinemus frowned and shook his head. “No. I just wanted to pound the arrogant piss out of him. But it sounded good to me, so I simply said, ‘Indeed, my Lord Prince, indeed,’ then nodded the sage way you do when you agree with someone you think isn’t as clever as you.”
Achamian smiled and nodded sagely.
Xinemus growled with laughter. “Either way, Proyas has refrained from repeating Paremti ever since. And when he returned to Aöknyssus, he offered to compensate Calmemunis lash for lash, in his father’s court.”
“And Calmemunis actually accepted? Surely the man’s not that foolish.”
“Oh, the oaf accepted, whipped Nersei Proyas before the eyes of King and court. And that’s the real reason why Calmemunis never forgave Proyas. He lashed away his last shreds of honour. When he realized this, he claimed that Proyas had tricked him.”
“So you think that’s why Calmemunis insisted on leading the Vulgar Holy War?”
Xinemus nodded sadly. “That’s why he, and a hundred thousand others, are dead.”
Great catastrophes were often wrought by such small things. The intolerance of a prince and the stupidity of an arrogant lord. But where were these facts? Did they lie somewhere across those distant fields of dead?
One hundred thousand dead . . .
Achamian glanced down at the benjuka plate. For some reason he saw it instantly—his move. As though surprised that Achamian still wanted to play, Xinemus watched as he repositioned an apparently irrelevant piece.
One hundred thousand dead—was this also a move of some kind?
“Cunning devil,” Xinemus hissed, studying the plate. After a moment’s hesitation, he made his countermove.
A mistake, Achamian realized. In one thoughtless instant, Xinemus had utterly undone his earlier advantage. Why do I see it so clearly now?
Benjuka. Two men. Two different ends. One outcome. Who determined that outcome? The victor? But true victories were so rare—as rare across the benjuka plate as they were in life. More often the result would be uneasy compromise. But a compromise shaped by whom? By no one?
Soon enough, Achamian realized, the Holy War proper would march from Momemn, cross the fertile province of Anserca, and then pass into hostile lands. All this time the prospect of the campaign had seemed an abstraction, a mere move that could not, as yet, be countered. But this isn’t a game. The Holy War will march, and no matter what, thousands upon thousands will die.
So many men. So many competing ends. And only one outcome. What would that outcome be? And who would shape it?
No one?
The thought terrified Achamian. The Holy War suddenly seemed a mad wager, a casting of number-sticks against an utterly black future. The lives of innumerable thousands—including Achamian—for distant Shimeh. How could any prize be worth such a wager?
“A hundred thousand dead,” Xinemus continued, apparently unaware of the seriousness of his position on the plate. “A handful of them men I knew. And to make matters worse, the Emperor has been quick to exploit our dismay. He bids us to learn from the Vulgar Holy War’s mistake.”
“Which was?” Achamian asked, still distracted by the plate.
“The folly of marching without Ikurei Conphas.”
Achamian looked up. “But I thought the Emperor provisioned Calmemunis and the others, made it possible for them to march in the first place.”
“Indeed. But then he’s promised to provision any who sign his accursed Indenture.”
“So Calmemunis and the others did sign . . .” There had been uncertainty about this in Sumna.
“Why n
ot? Men like him care nothing for their word. Why not promise to return all conquered lands to the Empire when your promise means nothing?”
“But certainly,” Achamian pressed, “Calmemunis and the others must have seen the Emperor’s plan. Ikurei Xerius knows full well that the Great Names will yield nothing to him. The Indenture is simply a pretext, something to prevent Shrial Censure when he orders Conphas to retake the Holy War’s conquests.”
“Ah, but you forget why Calmemunis marched in the first place, Akka. He didn’t march for Shrial Remission or for the glory of the Latter Prophet—or even to carve out a kingdom of his own, for that matter. No. Calmemunis possessed the heart of a thief. He marched to deny Proyas any glory.”
Arrested by a sudden thought, Achamian paused to study his friend. “But you, Zin . . . You do march for the Latter Prophet. How do all these vendettas and agendas make you feel?”
For a moment, Xinemus seemed taken aback. “You’re right, of course,” he said slowly. “I should be outraged. But I guess I expected this to happen. To be honest, I worry more about what Proyas will think.”
“And why’s that?”
“Certainly the news of the disaster will appall him. But all this score-settling and politicking . . .” Xinemus hesitated, as though silently rehearsing something long thought but never spoken. “I was among the first to arrive here, Akka, sent by Proyas to coordinate all those Conriyans who followed. I’ve been part of the Holy War since the first of the pavilions were pitched beneath Momemn’s walls. I know that the bulk of those who rumble around us are pious men. Good men—no matter what nation they hail from. And all of them have heard of Nersei Proyas and the respect Maithanet bears him. All of them, even other Great Names such as Gothyelk or Saubon, are prepared to follow his lead. So much of what happens in this game with the Emperor will depend on how Proyas responds . . .”
“And Proyas is often impractical,” Achamian concluded. “You fear that this game with the Emperor will provoke Proyas the Judge, rather than Proyas the Tactician.”