The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,9
just as easily have been a poison dart or a magician’s charm, neither of which could have harmed him. Hamanu was, above all else, not the tawny-skinned human man he appeared to be. But his guards should have found it. There’d be an accounting before sunset.
“My husband bade me give you this.”
The coil dropped from her fingers onto the black marble table. Hamanu retrieved it and read the words Chorlas had written, telling about three hundred wooden staves caravaned east, out of Nibenay, to a deserted oasis and left, unattended, by moonlight. The staves appeared to be plain brown wood, according to Chorlas, who was in a position to know, having been the owner of that east-bound caravan. But the staves left stains on the palms of the caravaneers who handled them and, afterward, the formerly brown wood had acquired a distinctly bronze-metallic sheen.
Agafari wood, no doubt, Nibenay’s most precious resource and a reliable weapon against the serrated obsidian edges of Urik’s standard-issue swords. Urik and Nibenay weren’t at war, not openly, though there hadn’t been true peace between the Lion and the Shadow-King since they’d laid claim to their respective domains long ago. And there’d been no trade between the cities these last three years, for which lapse there were as many reasons as there were grudges between Hamanu and his brother monarch, not least of which was the misfortuned ambition of a Urikite templar named Elabon Escrissar.
Indeed, at the moment, no legal trade passed between Urik and any other city in the old human-dominated heartland. No visitors, either. Folk stayed within Hamanu’s purview, if that’s where they were when he’d issued his decree, or they stayed outside it, under penalty of death.
There was trade, of course; no city was entirely self-sufficient, though, with well-stocked warehouses, Hamanu’s Urik could withstand a siege of many years. The laws merely complicated and compounded the risks all merchants knowingly took when they carried goods among the rival city-states, and gave Hamanu the pretext—as if he needed one—to interfere.
“Was your husband in Nibenay when he wrote this?” Hamanu asked mildly, maliciously. If she lied, he’d know it instantly. If she told the truth, she’d be an accomplice in illegal trade, the punishment for which—at a minimum—was the loss of an eye.
“He was, O Mighty King. He sent this at great risk and bade me bring it here at once. And I did—” she raised her head and, despite crashing waves of cold-blooded terror, met Hamanu’s smoldering stare with her own. “Five days ago, O Mighty King.”
So, she dared to be indignant with him. On a bad day, that was a death sentence; today, it intrigued him. Hamanu ran a fingertip over Chorlas’s words, reading the man who’d written them.
“There was another message,” he concluded.
“Only that I was to come directly to you, O Mighty King, as I have already said.”
“Your husband has placed you in great danger, dear lady, or do you claim not to know that it is against my laws to have discourse or trade with the Nibenese?”
“O Mighty King, my husband is Urikite born and raised.”
Hamanu nodded. His edict isolating Urik from the anarchy spreading across Athas in the wake of the Dragon’s demise had sundered families, especially the great, far-flung merchant dynasties, and his was not the only such edict: Tyr and Gulg and Nibenay itself had raised similar prohibitions.
Giustenal had never been without them. But trade and risk were inseparable, as the woman standing before him surely knew.
“That changes nothing, dear lady. I have forbidden all commerce. You have imperiled your life at your husband’s bidding. Your life, dear lady, not his. And for what? What trade could justify the risk?” Hamanu could imagine several, but Eden might surprise him, and notwithstanding the content of the message she’d brought him, which was itself enough to merit reward, Hamanu cherished surprises.
Anxiety froze Eden’s tongue in her mouth; Hamanu despaired of any surprise, then she spoke:
“O Mighty King, my husband and I, we judge it likely that the king of Nibenay is arming Urik’s enemies.”
“And?” Hamanu demanded. Her reasoning, though concurred with his own, wasn’t the surprise he’d hoped for.
“My husband is old, O Mighty King. He took me into his house when my mother died, as a favor to her father, who’d been a friend in their youths. Chorlas raised me as his granddaughter, and then, when I was old enough, he made me his wife.” Her voice broke, not with bitterness, but with that rarest of all mortal