Not only did the Prelate refuse to kneel before Ormaz, he scarcely deigned to bow. It was Enclave's way of reminding him the Hadith Line ruled by the blessing of the church and its Hierarch. Next to him, the Depot Master knelt properly. She was a mousy woman with gray fur and tiny ears. Watching a senior member of the mighty Respectable Society of Cartmen abase herself soothed the Tyrant's nerves. That he needed such reassurance was a bad sign.
"You will both stand and speak. What news is there from the desert?"
"We've been informed we may prepare caravans," said the senior cartwoman. "Sand Castle will accept travelers in a week, or two at the outside. Allotments remain low compared to pre-Darkmaw times but are higher than before the war. We anticipate this week's sounding board program will include claims of total victory against the Tyrant's army."
The Prelate remained silent, but he was sweating.
"Have you nothing to add, Prelate?"
"We have had no word from the desert, Great Tyrant. The most recent message from Enclave was two weeks ago, and it said everything was fine. Our disciples are in the desert, fighting heretics alongside Kashmar's proud army."
"Then how do you account for a thousand and a half Calique parading themselves in the north?" It pleased the Tyrant to watch the man squirm. Decades of experience told Ormaz that Enclave had failed in some exceptional manner, and he would wring it from the cleric before he let the man go. All he had to do was sit on his throne and glare at the weak man until he broke.
"Perhaps they are a diversionary force, Great Tyrant? The Pasha hopes you will feel threatened, and recall the army."
Ormaz let scorn drip from his voice. "If that were true, they would attack something. Instead, they send half their force to do me the favor of returning much-needed men and buying surplus goods. This is not a diversion. Try again."
The Prelate stammered out a series of wells, that-ises, I-means, and drawn-out uhs that filled the air but communicated nothing.
"If I may, Great Tyrant," interrupted the Depot Master, "what the esteemed Prelate is trying not to say is he fears he will never hear from Enclave again. I have more concrete news, if
With Ormaz's assent, the Depot Master described the scene in Enclave. The destruction of the Pinnacle and the dead Firsts, who had run Enclave from the shadows for years. The collapsed and flaming buildings of Enclave, its crumbling walls, and the Hierarch's empty seat. All done in a single day, without an army.
"Leadership is trying to hold the church together," she concluded, "but their true strength was in their practitioners. The rumor is they've lost the blessings of Olyon. If that's true, then Nexus has taken all the old church's power. It would be easy to verify. The Prelate can summon a healer and order them to make light. If they can't, then Enclave is truly dead."
"There's no need to summon anyone," said the Prelate, barely above a whisper. "There are five healers assigned to Kashmar's clinic, and none of them can use the prayers. Not even Prayer for Light. We fear the entire practitioner corps has been defrocked."
For the first time in his life, Ormaz was concerned about Kashmar's future.
That night, a camp grew up outside the city walls, beyond the range of Citadel's trebuchets. A miniature temple with a dome marked the camp's center, with an adjacent meeting hall and a nearby parsonage for their Hierarch. Tents and picketed appalons ringed the center buildings. A defensive wall surrounded the camp, complete with watchtowers. The wall was nothing compared to Citadel's, but it would keep a few thousand Kashmari soldiers from overrunning them too easily.
Lord Olson of Eagle Corps, the prince in charge of the local garrison, wanted to attack immediately. Including troops drawn from the countryside, he had three thousand men. Eagle Corps was not a war-fighting force. Their emphasis was on keeping the peace. But Olson imagined himself a great commander, even though he was ranked at sixty-two.
"Probe them first," said Ormaz. "Send out a small force with fire arrows and see if they'll burn. It'll give them a reason to stay awake at night, and we'll see how they react."
Olson sent thirty archers in a night attack. Not a single arrow was fired, and none of the men returned.
Ormaz was on the wall at dawn, puffing through the cold air, getting his first good look at the camp. They had a gurantor train now, and smoke rose from the parsonage's chimney. Men huddled around fires, tiny in the distance.
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"They're just casually having breakfast," he said aloud to Gobert and Olson. "We need a look inside that place, to gauge their mood if nothing else."
"I have an idea," said the Prime Minister, "if you don't mind unorthodox measures."
Gobert sent word through channels he occasionally used. Within the hour, a gaggle of women in unseasonable silks rode to the camp in a pair of carriages. They disembarked at the gate, conversed briefly with the men there, and were admitted.
"You sent them whores?"
Gobert laughed. "I sent a certain madam a letter asking her to ply her trade in the enemy camp and report back. They're not paid for. That would be too suspicious."
The women left the camp after only an hour, boarded the carriages, and rode back to Kashmar. A message was delivered to the minister's hand soon after. "Morale is high," read Gobert, "the camp is clean, and none of the men were injured. They were inspected by a healer, and two of the girls were cured of diseases. They enjoyed some drinks and light touching but had no takers for their services." Gobert laughed again and read directly from the board. "'They were confused by the offer to trade money for sex.' They didn't understand having to pay for it!"
"Savages!" spat Olson.
"Calique don't use money at home," the Tyrant reminded them, "and their women are unbelievably loose. But it was worth a try."
"We got healthy whores out of it," agreed Lord Olson. "That's something." The three men laughed and resumed their usual workday posts.
Just after noon, when the sun had chased away the cold, Lord Olson appeared before his Tyrant. "The Pasha raised a flag of parlay."
He was dismissed with the words, "I'll consider it."
A while later, Olson was back. "Great Tyrant, the enemy has invited
"Declined." Ormaz bent to his work. "Tell him appalon cheese is disgusting."
An hour or so later, Olson was back again but he seemed hesitant to speak. This time, the Prime Minister was with him.
"What is it?"
"Pasha Phillip says he has run out of wine and will tarry for only half an hour longer. He says he is content to begin hostilities at dawn tomorrow if that is
"He can't block our sea routes," Ormaz said, "so he won't try to starve us out. He'll pit his disciples against the wall. Do you think he can be trusted to parlay?"
"I do," said the Prime Minister. "We know he talked to Zaid before they fought, though we don't know what they talked about."
"Well then, let's have a look at the heretic."
The flag of parlay, white with a diagonal stripe, was planted within easy bowshot of the walls. It was arrogance incarnate, but it made Ormaz feel safer about the meeting. He crossed the distance on the tallest, grandest appalon in the stables. She had a pure white coat, a harness decked in gold, and an ass-bruising tread that made her useless for long journeys. He and his retinue (Prime Minister, Lord Olson, four guards) knelt their animals and dismounted with grace.
The food was cleared away, but he was offered tea. Ormaz refused it, naturally, because only an idiot accepted a drink from their enemy on the edge of battle.
The old Tyrant in his black and gold eyed the young Pasha in his scarlet and white, enemies on a field of battle, at opposite ends of their lives. Ormaz recognized Ma'Tocha, Scourge of Bandits, standing at the boy's right hand. These days, she had a new epithet: the Dread Disciple. Multiple survivors had called her that.
"Tyrant Ormaz. I was concerned you wouldn't show up."
"It's not every day someone delivers your son's head in a box. I had to see you for myself."
"As a general, he didn't disappoint. He was unpredictable, determined, and he kept his army together even when defeat was certain. I would have spared him, but he refused to yield. Even with his army destroyed, he wouldn't surrender. He obeyed your orders until the very end."
The boy praised his defeated enemy magnanimously. But, such gestures were the province of the victorious.
"You're overconfident, young Pasha. I see it all the time in my princes. You've achieved a big victory; there's no question about it. But now you overreach. Perhaps, you can take the city with two thousand men and your disciples, but you can't hold it. You are the invader here, unwanted. The North will fight you just as hard as the South fought us."
"You misunderstand our purpose," said the Pasha. "We don't want to rule Kashmar. We just want a few concessions. We demand …," he paused dramatically, "a divorce. No more North and South Kravikas. You can call the North the Principality of Kashmar or whatever you like, and we'll rename the South whatever we like. You will swear on a fragment of sun never to invade us again. It will be written in a proclamation by the Tyrant's hand, and proclaimed to your people.
"Second, you will return the people you took from Satoma. We know they were sold as slaves in violation of the Treaty of Alignment."
Ormaz laughed bitterly. This child was mad after all. "Do you think you can wave away the ambition of every Tyrant of Kashmar like that?" He snapped his fingers. "A unified Kravikas is a founding promise of Hadith's Destiny. It cannot be set aside."
"You're putting an extremely high value on something you've never had. In several centuries, Tyrants have grasped Sand Castle exactly twice and lost it both times. You just emptied your treasury to lose a war with a ten-to-one advantage. You're not giving up anything."
"Never," declared the Tyrant. "But if you leave before dawn, I think I can scrape together a few hundred gold. You can tell your people you negotiated a settlement with Kashmar. Not many people have achieved that! Spread the spoils around, and they should be overjoyed. You get to go home a hero instead of dying here."
"We don't need gold," scoffed the Pasha, "and this isn't a negotiation. I'm telling you what to do to avoid ending up like Enclave. Make the proclamation, return our people, and our business is done. Or don't, and everything breaks. If you doubt me, look at my achievements so far."
The Pasha was addled in the head if he thought his little threats could sway a Tyrant. "This conversation is over," spat Ormaz. "I'll see you on the field."
The Tyrant's party mounted their kneeling animals, stood them up, and departed with regal indifference.
Pasha Phillip whispered to his retreating back, "No, you won't."