Tithian walked forward, stopping near a graying patrician of about his own age. She had the pointed ears and peaked eyebrows of a half-elf, but her shape was somewhat plump and matronly for a woman of her race. Next to her, six gold coins rested in a shallow basket woven from the fronds of a soap tree. The woman did not turn to face the Tyrian.
“Is it not customary in Balic to greet strangers?” Tithian asked. His voice echoed through the still chamber as though he had struck a gong.
“Lady Canace cannot hear you,” said Maurus, walking toward him. “Neither can she see you.”
The Tyrian stepped around to face the woman. Ugly, red burn marks scarred her sunken eyelids, leaving Tithian with the impression that she had no eyeballs.
Maurus stopped at the Tyrian’s side, then placed a finger on the woman’s lower lip. She jumped as though startled, then allowed her mouth to be pulled open wide. In place of a tongue, she had only a mangled stump.
“King Andropinis values the advice of his patricians,” the templar said flatly. “But he also wishes to be certain that anything occurring here is never discussed outside the White Palace.”
“A wise precaution,” Tithian observed, stepping away from the woman. “It’s unfortunate he is not so prudent with his chamberlain.”
Maurus closed Lady Canace’s mouth and whirled around to reply, but an acid comment from the throne cut him off. “Do not anger my chamberlain,” said the voice. “It is the same as angering me.”
Tithian looked toward the throne and saw a huge man before the pedestal. He stood taller than an elf and was as heavily muscled as a mul. On his head, a fringe of chalk-colored hair hung from beneath a jagged crown of silver. He had a slender face, a nose so long it could almost be called a snout, and dark nostrils shaped like eggs. His cracked lips were pulled back to reveal a mouthful of teeth filed as sharp as those of a gladiator. Unlike the patricians, he did not dress in a toga. Instead, he wore a sleeveless tunic of white silk, a breechcloth of silver fabric, and soft leather boots.
“King Andropinis,” Tithian said. He did not bow, and his voice betrayed no sign of awe or reverence.
Andropinis did not answer, instead turning away to take his throne. As the Balican climbed the stairs, it became apparent that he was not entirely human. Beneath his tunic, a line of sharp bulges ran down the length of his spine, while small, pointed scales covered the back sides of his arms.
Andropinis took his seat in the throne, then glared around the chamber. We are in chamber, my advisors, he said, using the Way to broadcast his thoughts directly into the minds of everyone present.
The patricians rose from their seats, each holding a shallow soap tree basket in his or her hands. Tithian waited for the room to grow quiet again, then nodded to the chamberlain. “Announce me.”
Maurus motioned him forward. “I suggest you announce yourself,” he replied. “This audience is your doing, not mine.”
Tithian walked forward until he stood before the throne. Andropinis’s white eyes glared at him, as cold and stinging as hail, and the Balican said nothing. Compared to Kalak’s pitiful form, this sorcerer-king seemed a brute. He looked as though he could bite a man in two or rip a half-giant’s head off with his bare hands. Yet Tithian knew appearances could be deceiving. He had seen Kalak, as frail and decrepit as a hundred-year-old woman, kill slaves with no more than a glance and snap mul necks with a twist of his wrist.
The one who stands before you is Tithian the First, King of Tyr.
Andropinis was off his throne and towering over Tithian before the king realized he had moved. “Your identity is no concern of my patricians,” the Balican said quietly, clenching the smaller king’s shoulders. His fingers dug into Tithian’s flesh like talons, and his breath smelled as though he had been eating burnt cork. “Be kind enough to speak with your tongue.”
“If you wish,” Tithian replied. Moving with deliberate steadiness, he reached up and gently pushed Andropinis’s hand away from his shoulder. “And please remember that you address the king of Tyr.”
“You may have killed Kalak, but you are no king,” replied Andropinis. He circled Tithian slowly, looking him up and down. “You know nothing of being a king.”
“I know enough to have won a war with Hamanu of Urik,” the Tyrian answered. Strictly speaking, it had been Rikus who had won that war, but Tithian had been claiming credit for the victory so long that he had forgotten the distinction. “And I have won the favor of Borys of Ebe-the Dragon of Athas.”
Andropinis stopped at Tithian’s side. “You should not banter the Dragon’s ancient name about,” he warned, hissing into his guest’s ear.
“I did not come to banter, as you shall see if we may discuss the reason for my visit,” Tithian replied.
Andropinis nodded, then stepped toward the gallery where his nobles stood. “We will discuss it while I accept gifts from the patricians.”
Tithian went into the tiers at Andropinis’s side. Maurus fetched a large wooden basin from behind the throne, then followed a step behind the two kings. The trio stopped at the side of the first patrician, a wizened old man whose basket contained several glistening rubies.
Andropinis selected the largest gem and held it up to the light. “What do you want in Balic, usurper?” he asked, addressing his guest without looking at him.
Tithian’s answer was direct and to the point. “I need two thousand soldiers and the craft to carry them over the Sea of Silt.”
Andropinis raised a brow, then took all the rubies from the old man’s basket and dumped them into the basin in the chamberlain’s hands. “What makes you believe I would give them to you?”
Tithian gestured at the satchel on Maurus’s shoulder. “If I may?”
Andropinis considered the request for a moment, then nodded. “But if you draw a weapon-”
“I’m not that foolish,” Tithian said. He took the satchel from Maurus’s shoulder, then slipped a hand inside. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing one of the sacks of gold he had placed in the satchel before leaving his own palace in Tyr. When he had a clear image of it in his mind, he opened his hand. An instant later, he felt a wad of coarse cloth in his palm. Groaning with effort, he withdrew a heavy bag, bulging with coins and nearly as large as the satchel itself. He placed it in Maurus’s basin, opening the top to reveal the yellow sheen of gold.
Andropinis stared coldly at the coins. “Do you think to buy my favor with that?”
“Not your favor,” Tithian replied. “Your men and your ships.” When the Balican’s face remained stony, he added, “I’ll pay the other half when I return, along with compensation for any losses we incur.”
“And what of the losses I have already suffered?” demanded Andropinis.
“What losses would those be?”
“Five years ago, Tyr did not pay its levy to the Dragon, and it fell to me to give him a thousand extra slaves,” he said. “I couldn’t finish the great wall I had been building to enclose my croplands. Perhaps you heard about what happened next?”
“The Peninsula Rampage?” Tithian asked, thinking of the short-lived war in which a small army of giants had overrun most of the Balican Peninsula.
“The rampage cost me half my army and destroyed a quarter of my fields,” Andropinis said, turning away from Tithian. He went to the woman next in line and examined her basket, then nodded for Maurus to take the contents. “I doubt there’s enough gold in your magic satchel to pay me back for that,” he added, glancing at his guest.
“You can build another wall,” Tithian retorted. “But I still need your fleet. I demand it on the Dragon’s behalf.”
“Do not think to bluff me by invoking his name. I should kill you for that,” hissed Andropinis. He clamped a hand around Tithian’s throat. “Perhaps I will.”
“I’m not lying,” Tithian said. “You’ll realize that when I show you my prisoners.”