had begun to disseminate the first faint stirrings of resentment among the Strigoi nobility who were not tied to Ushoran’s apron strings. The Strigoi were not unused to long-lived rulers, but Kadon had been a sorcerer. Ushoran was not. But he was seemingly immortal, and though many members of his inner circle knew what he was, not all of them had truly understood what an immortal king meant.
Neferata could have told them, had they asked. Even Kadon had had the good grace to step back from direct rule eventually. The stagnation was already creeping in. Men who had been turned when the Strigoi were horse-raiders with grandiose dreams of empire now ruled said empire, but could not shake the petty perspectives of those far-gone times.
And as the Strigoi people advanced, their hidebound, atavistic nobility became ever more out of step. The world moved on, no matter how much creatures like Ushoran and – yes – even herself at times wished it wouldn’t.
‘Besides, he’ll enjoy fighting the orcs for a few years. He seems to enjoy the taste, at any rate.’ She looked at Anmar. ‘On to other matters… Tell me of the dawi, little leopard.’
‘They left this morning, my lady,’ Anmar said.
‘You are certain?’
‘I followed them myself,’ Anmar said.
Neferata sat back and sighed. Razek had been a disappointment, in more ways than one. He was too observant. And he was too determined to discover the source of the gold that formed Strigos’s wealth, and to lay claim to it for his people. The attempts had been made via human mercenaries – thieves and bandits, paid through third parties. All had died, or been paid off, but the attempts had become an annoyance, not to mention distracting. Razek, she was certain, knew that Ushoran was paying the dwarfs in their own gold, stolen by Kadon so long ago. And if he ever found proof, that would be it for the current amicable state of affairs.
Dwarfs were not given to plotting, but Razek seemed to break the mould. A quiet word in Ushoran’s ear had resulted in Razek being recalled to the Silver Pinnacle once the trade between the two peoples had settled into a comfortable rhythm after a few decades. Still, there lingered the suspicion that Razek’s influence was not entirely gone from Mourkain. The dwarf traders and merchants who came by the Silver Road all carried the stamps and seals of King Borri, but she suspected that they had Razek’s gold in their pockets, and that gold went into the hands of yet more thieves and spies. He was more than just Borri’s thane – he was the king of Karaz Bryn’s hearth-warden. He was her opposite number and equally determined to accomplish his goal.
That alone necessitated his eventual death. But not yet, she thought. Razek was a known quantity now, and the dwarfs might yet come in handy, beyond the obvious. Tapping her lip, she glanced at Iona. The red-headed former concubine had flourished since being given the gift of Neferata’s blood-kiss. She had transformed from a starveling wretch into a magnificent creature, her bedraggled looks amplified into feral beauty. ‘And how are the gods, Iona? Are they satisfied with their offerings?’
‘So their priestesses assure me, mistress,’ Iona said, curling a lock of fiery red hair around one pale finger. ‘The sangzye is collected without comment. Our people place little value on blood,’ she added, shrugging. Neferata smiled in satisfaction.
The transplantation of the Nehekharan cults had taken close to thirty years of effort on her part; something to keep her interested during her idle moments. Small temples to Djaf, Phakth and Ptra now occupied the central plaza of Mourkain, and their priestesses had all been gifted with her kiss. Granted, those temples and their practices would be unrecognisable to any inhabitant of the Great Land.
Blood was the holiest of sacrifices, and each god accepted their due in the temples of Mourkain. The sangzye was a tax of blood, levied on the devout; it served to keep the growing population of vampires in check.
‘Ajal Djazk,’ Neferata said. She looked at Rasha, who smiled thinly. Djazk was the latest troublesome nail in need of hammering down: a minor lordling who’d attempted to subvert several of Neferata’s handmaidens through bribery and other, less subtle methods. He was a brute and a slave to his passions. He was not alone in such, but he had made his intentions known in too blatant a fashion.
The memory of what Neferata had done to Strezyk was