Hamanu cast his netherworld net beyond the city. The corners of his mouth pulled upward with relief: the Tyr-storm's fury was so tightly centered above the palace that the fields outside the walls had suffered no worse than a steady rain. The workers were safe in whatever shelters they'd found for themselves, and the seeds they'd planted were safe, as well.
His elite templars wouldn't sleep before midnight. As the storm grumbled to a close, Hamanu crafted orders for his men and women. He'd meet immediately with his war-bureau commandants and a few others in the map room, but most of his elite templars would find themselves with civic duties in the storm's aftermath. Keeping order was the templars' responsibility. There'd been casualties—he could feel the Urikite dead and dying—and property damage: collapsed buildings; fires, despite the black rain; and a smattering of mad folk, some pathetically helpless, and others more dangerous than any arena beast.
Hamanu's yellow-robed templars would see to it all. They'd dispatch the dead to the knackers; the injured to whatever healers they could afford; and they'd keep the city safe from looting, riot, and madmen. They'd organize the work gangs to put out the fires and dig out survivors. They'd get their own hands dirty, if he told them to.
And he would.
"I retire to consider what I've learned," Hamanu announced before any templar had overcome his or her reluctance to ask questions. "You will each do what your office commands in the aftermath of a Tyr-storm." The individual orders he'd crafted flowed simultaneously from his mind to theirs. "Are there any questions?"
He looked around the chamber, meeting and breaking the stare of anyone who considered a time-wasting inquiry. The templars began departing. As soon as there was a clear path to the corpse, the slaves left the treadmills. They took up the blond Raamin's body and bore it respectfully from the chamber.
Hamanu picked out one particular dark-haired head among those moving toward the door. Flicking a finger through the netherness, he tapped the man sharply on the shoulder. Pavek's face slumped forward even as his spine straightened—an impressive physical performance in its helpless, hapless mortal way—but otherwise no one suspected that he'd been singled out for private conversation with his king.
Pavek was learning the tricks of his new trade.
"I gave you no orders," Hamanu said once they were alone. He narrowed his eyes and got a good taste of common-born fear before Pavek managed to swallow it.
Slowly, Pavek raised his head. Dark mortal eyes, wide with dread, found the strength to defy the Lion-King. "O Mighty King, I was following the commands of my office. There are Quraite farmers planting seed north of the walls—"
"Eight of whom are more competent druids than you'll ever be! If all of Urik were so well protected, the fiercest Tyr-storm would be tamed to a breeze long before it got here."
Pavek gulped. Guilty thoughts swirled in his mind. He'd known about six of the druids, but not eight. He was afraid for himself, more afraid for them. It was the latter fear that stiffened his spine. "O Mighty King, you said it was time for Quraite to pay the price of your protection. It was their choice. More would have come—"
"But you thought six was enough. I tell you, Pavek, they sneaked an extra two in without your knowledge."
The man broke at last. His posture went limp; he stared at his feet and muttered, "It was their choice, O Mighty King. They know their magic is forbidden, but they came anyway. You made them understand that Quraite is as much a part of Urik as the Lion's fountain."
Even in defeat—especially in defeat—Pavek spoke the words that formed in his heart. Once, never more than twice, in a human generation, Hamanu found a man who'd tell the truth, no matter the risk.
"I need you here, Just-Plain Pavek."
"O Mighty King, I'm yours to command."
"Good." Hamanu smiled, baring pointed golden teeth, but the illusion went for naught because Pavek continued to stare at his toes. He reached around for the wrapped bundle he'd left on the throne seat. It was heavier now and definitely inert. "You will take this to my workroom—Look at me, Pavek! Look at me when I'm giving you an order!"
"I meant no disrespect, O Mighty King."
Hamanu seldom explained himself or apologized for anything. He hid his cursed fangs within blunt-edged human illusions and considered that sufficient. He shoved the bundle into Pavek's reluctant arms. "You will take this to my workroom; I judge it harmless enough now, but it warrants further examination. You'll find a table covered with vellum. Put it on the table and wait for me to return. While you're waiting, you'll see an iron-bound chest against the far wall. Keep a careful eye on it, Pavek, but otherwise, leave it alone."
"I will not touch anything, O Mighty King. I wouldn't consider it."
"Keep an eye on the chest. Don't fret over the rest. It's loot, mostly, from Yaramuke and other forgotten places. With all the flooding, the palace is as damp as the rest of Urik. There's water below and history piled everywhere that's still dry."
Another man hearing of Yaramuke's fabled treasure might be tempted with greedy thoughts. Not Pavek. His thoughts were utterly guileless when he said, "I will wait, O Mighty King, and watch the iron-bound chest, as you ordered."
"You might read the vellum," Hamanu suggested, tamping the seeds of curiosity firmly into Pavek's consciousness.
"If you so command, O Mighty King."
Hamanu silently bemoaned the frustrations of tempting an honest man. "You might be waiting a while, Pavek. You might grow bored. You might read the vellum, if you do grow bored."
"I will remember that, O Mighty King."
Like as not, Pavek would never succumb, and Hamanu would have to order the man to read what he'd written, as he had before. "Go," he said wearily. "Wait, grow bored, and remember whatever you wish."
"Your will, O Mighty King." Pavek bowed awkwardly— he'd never have the grace of a properly obsequious courtier—and retreated toward the door.
Hamanu had slit the air before him in preparation to entering the Gray when the mortal man stopped suddenly and turned around. Misty tendrils of the netherworld wafted between them. Pavek affected not to notice, but the man was a druid—however rudimentary his training, he had the raw talent to see the mist and know what it was.
"Yes, Pavek?"
The scarred templar blinked and shuddered. He'd almost forgotten why he'd stopped. Then the thought reformed in his mind. "O Mighty King, the iron-bound chest that I'm supposed to watch. What am I watching for? What should I do if... if something happens to it?"
"Nothing, Pavek, nothing at all. If anything happens, you'll simply die."
Hamanu didn't wait for Pavek's reaction. He thrust one arm, then one leg, into the netherworld and strode from the throne chamber to the map room where his war staff had assembled. The Lion-King didn't stand on ceremony with these men and women.
"We fight for Urik's very life," he told them as he sealed the netherworld rift. "Armies from Nibenay and Gulg pin our flanks while Dregoth sends undead hordes our way from Giustenal. Raam sends messengers, Balic, too, and it's safe to wager they'll be marching before long. It's only a matter of time before we hear from what's left of Draj."
There was a collective intake of breath, a muttered curse or two, and a question: "What of Tyr?"
That Hamanu couldn't answer. The free folk of Tyr, having slain their king, a dragon, and returned the War-Bringer to his prison, had become a realm unto themselves, obsessed with laws and councils and taking little interest in the heartland beyond their borders.