had never expected to see such concrete reminders of home again. Even the tiles in the floor were the same as those which had once lined the path to the Women’s Palace.
Ushoran was trying to re-create Lahmia. The thought struck her like a hammer-blow. Rage followed a moment later. How dare he? He, whose actions had led to her city’s destruction, dared to make a mockery of that lost paradise by hanging tapestries and encouraging these savages in aping Nehekharan ways?
The corridors themselves were crafted from slabs of stone and, like the pyramids of home, they moved across from east to west, and then up south to north in a zigzag pattern. It was like following a well-worn path. She knew where it would come out, as she recalled the holy routes of the temples of home. And with every step she took, the whispering in her head grew stronger. It was almost painful in its intensity, and she fought to ignore it.
The throne room crouched in the web of corridors that surrounded it, nestled like a cancer in the heart of the pyramid. Smoking, glowing braziers were scattered throughout the room, their light revealing the high balconies and great expanse of floor. At the other end of the room, a great flat dais rose, and on it, a throne. The throne was made from the ribcage of some great beast and spread across the rear wall, and on that throne… Ushoran.
The Ushoran she had known had had many faces. Brutish, handsome, plain, young and old; there was a reason he had been given the title of Lord of Masks. With Ushoran, there was no telling whether or not the face you were seeing, the voice you were hearing, was his own or a disguise he was putting on for one reason or another.
He sits in your chair, the voice hissed. She ignored it, trying to concentrate on the familiar-yet-not figure sitting before her. The man on the dais looked nothing like the man she remembered, but his body language, his expression was the same; those told the truth of him. He was handsome now, but the ugliness of old was there, in the curl of his lip and the twinkle in his eye. If he saw her, he gave no sign. He sat on his throne, lounging like a Cathayan potentate, dressed much as his nobles – trousers and a jerkin belted at the waist with a strap of beaten gold, and golden armlets and bracers on his heavily muscled limbs. A sword lay against his throne, still sheathed. He had never been one for weapons; it was just for show, most likely.
The throne room was crowded with courtiers – men and women whose clothing, while crude by the standards of any civilised nation, was fine enough to speak to their relative position in Ushoran’s new hierarchy. In the sea of warm veins and throbbing pulses there were one or two spots of ugly cold. Vorag hadn’t been exaggerating. The men were swaggering bullies, not much different from Vorag – a warrior aristocracy, not long removed from the saddle. The women interested her more. They had the look of she-wolves barely broken to the leash. They had grown sleek on their husbands’ new statuses, but the hunger, the drive for more, lurked below the smiles and laughter. And, even more interestingly, none had been given the blood-kiss.
Of course, Ushoran had never been all that fond of women, beyond their more obvious qualities. A trait he had shared with her husband, Lamashizzar. It was a blind spot that a king could ill afford, let alone a spymaster.
She restrained a smile. It wasn’t hard. The situation was designed to annoy. One of Ushoran’s more prized abilities was being able to insert his hooks into the most painful soft point on psyche or physicality and to twist.
Ushoran wanted her to see him this way; to see him enshrined in glory. Or maybe he wanted her to do something foolish. That would be like him. His mind was crooked, and if Neferata was a leopardess, Ushoran was a spider. He wanted her to fly into his web.
Well, two could play at that game.
Razek stumped forwards at a gesture from Strezyk, cradling his axe in the crook of one brawny arm. It was a calculated insult, she knew, though whether by Strezyk or his master, she couldn’t say. ‘Hail, Ushoran, King of Strigos,’ Razek boomed, raising his free hand in greeting. ‘I, Razek Silverfoot,