“If our people are shut out, Great Khan, they will be forced to storm the city for water.”
“Attack Khuri-Khan?” Sahim thundered. “Blood will run down the walls of the city should that happen!”
The Silvanesti noble bowed, saying smoothly, “Your Majesty is wise. Blood indeed will flow, elven and human.”
Honey-tongued Zunda stepped forward and intoned, “Great is the patience of my master, Sahim the Many-Blessed! His forbearance is like the gods’ own! He has heard of the terrible atrocities wrought against his desert children, and still he is merciful. Still he stays his hand against the laddad, for he has pledged to maintain their safety. The word of Sahim-Khan is like a thunderbolt, implacable and unchanging!”
Suave, diplomatic Silvanesti never grind their teeth in frustration, but Lord Morillon was close to doing just that. He said—for the eighth time since arriving at the palace—that there was no proof a massacre had occurred, much less that it had been perpetrated by elves. “If the Mighty Khan would receive my king, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, he would know this tale is false.”
“Desert tribesmen are known throughout this land for their truth telling,” said Zunda. “It is, for them, as essential as water and salt.”
“I can only repeat: There is no proof Lady Kerianseray or any other elven warriors have harmed a single nomad. No one has offered the slightest evidence an atrocity has even occurred. If it has, the Great Khan should look elsewhere for culprits—Neraka, perhaps.”
Lord Hengriff also was present on the rooftop. The representative of the Dark Knights stood a few steps away, among a crowd of other foreign dignitaries he overtopped by head and shoulders. His dark face was expressionless as a mask, even when the Silvanesti noble invoked his country’s name.
“The truth will be known,” Sahim declared. “I believe in the will of the gods.”
In reality Sahim-Khan believed in nothing but Sahim-Khan. As always, his mind was busy considering how best to make use of the current situation. Morillon’s threat to fight for water might prove a useful lever for prying more money out of Neraka. Sahim sought out Hengriff in the crowd, only to discover the bull-voiced warrior had slipped away unnoticed. Such discretion was remarkable in so large a man-remarkable and unnerving.
“Mighty Khan, the gates?” the Silvanesti lord was saying.
He was a persistent snake. Sahim had to credit him for that. Next to round, bewigged old Zunda, Morillon looked trim, cool, and elegant.
Sahim settled himself back in his throne—not the heavy, priceless Sapphire Throne, which never left the audience hall—and arranged his white and gold robes. Thus seated, he was a head taller than the standing elf. He made the most of his advantage, looking down his nose at Morillon.
“Zunda, how long till sunset?”
“One hour, Mighty Khan,” the vizier replied promptly. He’d long ago learned to have a multitude of disparate facts to hand, even one which his master could easily know for himself, simply by looking over his shoulder at the lowering sun.
Sahim mulled the answer in silence for moment, then barked: “Commander of the Guard!”
The quick flash of surprise on Morillon’s face was most gratifying. The laddad wasn’t as sure of himself as he appeared.
General Hakkam came forward. Armor clanking, he knelt before his lord. “Commander, take what troops you need and clear the city gates of all malcontents,” the Khan said. “If they resist, put them to the sword!”
Hakkam’s weathered face showed even more surprise than the elf’s, but he acknowledged the command immediately. Before he could rise to go, Sahim spoke again.
“However, the gates will remain closed.”
It seemed all in the crowd were holding their breath. None could fathom what the Khan was up to. From the look on Morillon’s face, it was obvious he, too, was at a loss.
“As you must certainly recall, my lord,” Sahim said, “elves are not allowed within the city after nightfall. The Khan of Khur cannot allow his defenses to be compromised. The malcontents and rioters will be cleared from the gates at once, and the gates will open as usual—at sunrise tomorrow.”
General Hakkam departed.
Morillon expressed his gratitude. His words carried no trace of irony.
“Justice is the cornerstone of khanship,” Sahim said, allowing his amusement to show. It was not a pleasant expression. “The merchants in the souks must trade. I’m sure they miss their laddad customers.” He put a hand to his lips, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “You had best warn your Speaker. Keeping sufficient troops on the gates to ward off rioters will be a drain on my treasury. I will of course be forced to institute a new tax.”
An awed hush fell over the rooftop garden. Morillon’s breathing seemed suddenly loud. All of his diplomatic training was required to keep him from shouting. “What tax, Mighty Khan?” he asked.
“Henceforth, all persons entering Khuri-Khan to trade must pay an entry tax.” He glanced at Zunda. “One gold piece per head.” The vizier lowered his eyes and nodded, ever so slightly.
The amount was ridiculous, exorbitant, and fell especially on the elves, who entered frequently for trade purposes. Morillon’s Silvanesti aplomb failed him utterly. His mouth fell open. Sahim smilingly assured him the tax was only temporary, until the troops could be returned to their barracks.
Morillon bowed stiffly. “I will convey the Great Khan’s words to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Will Your Mightiness receive the Speaker to discuss the matter of the alleged massacre?”
Sahim waved a hand magnanimously. “I need no reassurance, my lord. The word of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars is more than enough for me.”
Pale, tight-lipped, Morillon swept out, ignoring the stares of Sahim’s uncouth courtiers. Another so-called tax! This was the second time the Khan had insulted the Speaker to Morillon’s face. The Silvanesti was a lifelong servant of the throne of the Stars and his patience was nearly at an end. Sahim-Khan didn’t know it, but he’d made a lasting enemy of Lord Morillon this day.
Passing through the citadel courtyard, walking so rapidly his small entourage had to jog to keep up, Morillon noted two humans talking together. Lord Hengriff and Prince Shobbat were deep in conversation by a shadowed wall. That is to say, Shobbat was talking animatedly. Hengriff was listening, arms folded across his chest.
The Knight’s eyes moved, crossing Morillon’s gaze in passing, and his impassive countenance altered. The look on his face was so fleeting, Morillon found it difficult to categorize. Was it acknowledgment? A grudging respect? The Dark Order, for all its machinations, was a far more honorable opponent than the grasping, conniving Sahim. Perhaps in that brief moment Knight and elf shared the realization that both were heartily sick of Khur and its ruler. Change was coming. Whether it would be for Neraka or the elves was uncertain, but the current course could not continue.
A very eloquent glance. In a snap of sky-blue silk, Morillon was out the gate and gone. Hengriff continued to stare thoughtfully after him.
“—was delivered!” Shobbat was saying, voice rising. “Did your courier get through as I ordered?”
Hengriff nodded, and the prince demanded, “Well, has he returned? I would speak to him about the nomads’ reaction ”
The Knight didn’t respond. He was still thinking about the Silvanesti noble. Lord Morillon was a chink in the Speaker’s armor. Gilthas trusted him too much, relied too heavily on his counsel, but Hengriff recognized Morillon’s type. He was of the class of elves who let their nation slide into ruin while they observed all the niceties of protocol and manners. Kerianseray and the Qualinesti were much more dangerous. They would have deduced long before now that they had a spy in their midst. Morillon was still in the dark.