The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes Page 0,36
open to the garden courtyard beyond. There was no breeze, though the silk panels of fans swung back and forth to bring some relief from the wet-mortar claustrophobia of the air. The silk of his knee-length jacket and kilt clung, though his feet were cool in their gold-chased sandals.
He felt tired watching Belamandris, with all his energy, stalk from one end of the room to the other. His son’s movements were economical, controlled, so much so he seemed to glide across the mosaic floor. Mariam let her head roll on her neck and studied her brother from under lowered brows. She sat slumped in a short scarlet tunic, bare-legged and bare-footed. Thufan wilted on a cushion, while his giant tattooed son, Armal, looked on Mariam with melancholy eyes. Corajidin scowled at the sweat trickling from the glistening stubble on the giant’s head down his rough-hewn features. Only Farouk seemed untroubled by the heat, precise in his uniform with its scarlet braid and commendations.
“I thought you’d see the advantage in letting Ariskander bear the burden of governing Amnon.” Yashamin’s tone was placating. She wore a diaphanous robe, the sleek lines of her body accentuated rather than hidden by the sheer fabric. “It leaves you to focus on what you want: the treasures from the Rōmarq.”
“I also wanted Far-ad-din’s damn treasury!”
“There’s nothing in it,” Mariam said, voice soft and eyes closed. His daughter seemed to wilt in the damp heat. “Far-ad-din managed to smuggle almost everything of value out of the city. The coffers are empty.”
“Meanwhile”—Belamandris stopped his pacing for a moment—“our army is costing us a fortune while it remains camped on the edge of the Rōmarq. We lose soldiers every day. It seems we can’t send a patrol more than a bow-shot away from our camps without it being attacked. Sitting around is doing us no good at all.”
“We cannot leave,” Corajidin said. “I need more money to persuade some of the other Teshri members, and our only hope is to sell some of what we find in the marshlands. Sweet Erebus, it seems the price goes up with each new person I have to buy.”
“Haven’t you bribed enough people to assure you’ll be Asrahn?” Mariam asked caustically. “You should cut your losses and go home, before your tomb robbing is exposed.”
“We’re safe for now. As for the bribes, it never hurts to be sure.” Corajidin scowled. “I have spent too much already to leave anything to chance. Between the bribes to bring the war here, the costs of the army, plus the votes I’m buying, I have had to borrow from the moneylenders of the Mercantile Guild.”
Yashamin curled her lip in distaste. The former courtesan rubbed her hands down her arms, as if wiping something away. “I remember too well those perverted leeches! All the gold in Īa, without a copper’s worth of class. The things asked for…”
“Pacifying the Rōmarq to recoup our costs won’t be any easier if the Asrahn orders us to disband the army.” Belamandris poured his sister a bowl of watered wine. “Mari, did Vashne mention anything else about his plans?”
“No.”
Corajidin scowled at the hesitation in his daughter’s voice. He had noted more conflict in her of late. More hesitation to comply with his will.
“The Asrahn’s going to disband the armies soon, given Ariskander’s established a tenuous peace. The only conflict we’re hearing of is from the Avānese factions in the city,” Mariam continued.
“It hardly matters.” Yashamin gazed at her husband, her kohl-rimmed eyes dark, heavy-lidded. “Though it’s all well and good for prophecies and oracles to fill our heads with hopes, I urged you that sometimes we need to make our own dreams a reality. You can be the supreme monarch of your people without Wolfram’s oracles whispering their poison in your ears.”
“Or you could go home before you’re discovered, where you can work on getting well again,” Mariam murmured.
“Kasra thinks some of what he’s found is a Torque Spindle,” Belamandris said over steepled fingers. “If he can get that working, we can make any army we need. Look how well the Iphyri have served us. Imagine the kind of new warriors we could make and train!”
“And if anybody opposes you”—Yashamin’s expression was self-satisfied—“well, Far-ad-din isn’t the only monarch who can fall by the wayside. Jahirojin is a time-honored tradition. We don’t need a Torque Spindle, or the armies it can produce, to rise to power.”
“Should you order it, sire,” the scar-faced Farouk offered, “I’d shed the blood of anybody you wanted.”