He was a horrible creature, and physically repulsive, but he was also stupid, greedy and gullible. Asima would be able to claw her way to the pinnacle of Pelasian society just by playing the man. She…
A noise distracted her, and she swung her head to the private chamber behind her, tastefully decorated and furnished, and graced with three ornate windows and a balcony. Her heart in her throat, she realised the shouts of warning were coming from outside. What now?
Weighing her options, she sighed and moved as lightly as she could from behind the drapes, across the other room and to the balcony. Stepping outside, she glanced down into the grounds and took in the events below as shock made her grip the rail of the balcony.
Black-clad guards were running across the lawns, chasing a single figure on horseback. The horse was a magnificent white mare. She knew that, because she knew the rider. Prince Ashar raced for the stairs leading up to the walls near the gate and she found that she was urging him on; to escape. Strange that: Ashar had never trusted her; never been a friend to her, and yet she felt that on some unspoken level he understood and appreciated her. He was a conundrum, that one.
Other guards were closing the net. She realised with a hint of sadness that Ashar had been charged with saving the God-King’s twin boys and yet his hands were empty as he rode desperately, looking for a hole in the tightening net. Ashar would now be the last direct member of the Parishid dynasty; four hundred years of rule in Pelasia in the form of one man, fleeing the palace in the night.
As she watched, Ashar wheeled his horse, shouted something she didn’t quite hear, and raced toward the thinnest area of the cordon. Timing his move impeccably, the prince urged his horse to a jump and cleared the closing guards with ease. As confusion reigned and the black soldiers rushed around trying to change direction and follow their target, Ashar rode up the wide staircase to the top of the land walls.
Behind and below him, men ran across the lawns and began to climb the stairs, but Ashar had a strong lead on them. As other guards appeared from towers and ran out onto the walls, Ashar climbed dextrously onto the saddle of his horse, turned to face the palace, gave a last, elegant bow to the memory of his uncle, and dropped backwards out of sight, disappearing from the wall top into the street that separated the palace complex from the great circus.
The fall from there, forty feet down to hard paving, should be fatal, or critically-injuring at least. And yet, this was Ashar Parishid. In the years Asima had known the prince in Akkad, he had never once done anything foolish or without having planned it through first. The prince would be alive and well and leaving Akkad…
… for now.
She heaved a sigh of relief and turned to see the three lords standing in the room behind her, guards filing around the perimeter.
“Lady Asima, I believe” the satrap Ma’ahd smiled mirthlessly. “I am given to understand that you were one of Amashir’s favourites and that you were one of my girls from M’Dahz. It seems I chose well.”
Asima smiled meekly. No time to push things, now.
“My Lord Satrap.”
Ma’ahd nodded, deep in thought and then turned to a guard and gestured at her.
“Take her back to the harem; and while you’re there, do a complete count of wives, courtesans and other women. I fear we may have to perform a cull. Amashir had a broad palate.”
The look of complete unconcern on Siszthad’s face brought a mix of dry humour and disgust from Asima.
She could survive a cull. She had survived far worse.
Part Three: Cargoes
In which a new page of history begins
Ghassan shuffled his feet nervously and glanced sidelong at captain Jaral. In the past few years, their life had become surprisingly mundane.
The Pelasians seemed to have turned their attention west, toward their own people. The civil war there may have been quick and brutal, but the resulting peace had been long and just as brutal. For three years now Pelasia had cut off most of its remaining ties with the Empire or, at least, with the former territories of the Empire. Black ships had rarely been seen anywhere near the border zone, concentrating instead on keeping the new reign imposed on an unhappy and restless population.
Consequently, the only target for the militia was the pirates and, with what was essentially the closure of Pelasian waters and therefore a massive increase in Calphorian military concentration on anti-piracy activities, the villains were generally staying well away from the coastal regions and picking on the occasional brave merchant who crossed the open sea.
It had been rumoured that the Lord of Calphoris was considering reducing the size of his navy and pushing any spare militia into the land forces. The idealistic side of Ghassan approved of the move and realised that a reassignment to dry land could be a step toward his goal of directing the strength of Calphoris against M’Dahz. The practical side of him also realised, however, that since satrap Ma’ahd was now one of the top men in Pelasia, any move against them would likely result in Calphoris being squashed like an insect under the weight of the Pelasian army.
Also, frankly, he’d grown to love life at sea.
And so it was with some trepidation that he stood now with his captain outside the doors of the Lord’s council chamber in the palace of Calphoris. The next few minutes could change his life entirely; he could even be pensioned out. He swallowed nervously.
“Enter!”
Ghassan straightened his hastily-washed uniform and watched as the huge cedar doors swung slowly inwards to reveal the great court chamber of the provincial capital. The Lord of Calphoris sat at the far end not, as Ghassan had expected, on a high throne surrounded by vassals and servants and plotting campaigns on grand maps. The Lord of Calphoris was, in fact, sitting at a plain wooden desk with two elderly men and scribbling furiously while discussing something in low voices.
Ghassan looked around at the room. Large and high and fancy enough in which to hold great state occasions, the hall was certainly the largest single room Ghassan had even seen. Poles jutted from the wall high on both sides, having once held banners of some kind. The room was of white and yellow marble, with an inlaid and patterned floor.
He looked at the captain, who shrugged and gestured forwards.
The two men fell easily into step and strode with a clacking sound across the hard floor. As they approached the far end, the Lord looked up and blinked. Sitting back as they came to a halt and saluted, he frowned and then nodded.
“Captain Jaral and Officer Ghassan of the ‘Wind of God’ yes?”
“Sir.” They both replied in the affirmative. The Lord of Calphoris, ex-Imperial provincial governor and the most powerful man south of the sea was a surprisingly small and mousy nondescript man in an ordinary, plain tunic and breeches. He scratched his chin and fixed the two of them with the most piercing gaze Ghassan had ever seen. Those emerald eyes seemed to have weighed up Ghassan’s worth in a glance. This, despite his ordinary appearance, was an exceptionally intelligent man.
“I have important news to impart to you, gentlemen. Please… stand at ease.”
As the two sailors relaxed a little, though not enough to appear insolent, the Lord leaned back and stretched.
“You have been in port for three days. I believe…” he fished around among his papers, found one and ran his gaze down it. “Of sixty two militia craft in varying sizes, the ‘Wind of God’ is the only one currently in port and the ‘Shadu’s Arrow’, which we are not expecting for several days, will be the next.”