A Strange Invasion

— Tyrant Ormaz, Kashmar —

A strange kind of invasion was advancing across Kashmari territory. It didn't hurry but ambled at an easy walking pace. It didn't kill or loot. It did not terrify. It didn't take prisoners or abuse the population. Instead, it gave things back.

There were fifteen hundred mounted Calique. The exotic cavalry painted their eyes and lips in a myriad of colors. There were women among them, too, and what a sight they were! They dressed as men and carried weapons as if they knew how to use them. The appalons were dressed in their riders' colors with dyed manes and tails, and stylized plants and animals were painted on their flanks.

Beneath the invading cavalry walked prisoners: two thousand Kashmari soldiers on foot, plodding in the dirt beneath their captors' watchful eyes and shining spears. Ropes connected them, one neck to the next. They were otherwise unshackled and unbound. They went complacently with their captors because they were heading home. Why would they run other than to avoid the shame of returning home as a defeated man? But there was comfort in a shame shared by so many, and any man who could not bear defeat had given himself up in battle.

There had been plenty of opportunities in their long march south and back again. Bitter Spring. Laggard's Shaft. Trapped between Morufu's Sore and the Cobbles. Nameless patches of desert in between those places. Ten thousand died in the terrors of the Final Storm. Anyone who wanted to die had plenty of chances to do so. Any who remained wanted to live. So they walked when their captors told them to walk, and they ate what their captors gave them, and they didn't make trouble.

There was a pageantry to their slow advance. At each village, the army stopped and held a brief ceremony. An important-looking man with a wide belt and ceremonial jacquard-woven cloak knelt his mount in whatever space counted as a town square. He stood upon its back to be heard and seen, desert-lean and dangerous. His eyes flashed yellow, and his lips were painted green. He declared the invasion was over. Kashmar had lost. Prisoners native to that place or anywhere nearby were pulled forward for all to see. Few of the frightened peasantry hung around for these events. They hid on rooftops or behind wooden shutters, too afraid to come close and too drawn to turn away.

"Our quarrel is not with the people of Kashmar. How can you do anything but what your princes command? We will avenge ourselves upon the Tyrant, his princes, and the army. We will not bother the common people. It is not your fault that your masters are so unwise."

Instead of the expected executions, prisoners were released. Fear turned into joy for those whose sons and husbands had returned. Hope turned to grief for those who didn't. Of the thirty thousand men who marched boldly through Morufu's Teeth, only two thousand remained alive. Their stories put to rest any lingering doubts: the invasion was a calamity from almost its beginning to the very end. There never was a chance for victory in Morufu's Palm. Though no one would say it aloud, the meaning was clear: The princes had been fools to try.

The invaders didn't march straight to Kashmar's main city but detoured north, almost as far as Bodrum. In larger villages, they dallied for an hour or two while Calique warriors shopped and resupplied. They demanded nothing and paid fair prices for everything. If there was disease in the village, Nexus healers went to work in exchange for small donations. For some villages, it was far more consideration than their princes had ever shown.

Everywhere Calique went, the proud Kashmari army fled. Tyrant Ormaz had given orders: retreat to Kashmar and face the enemy from behind its unassailable walls. If Pasha Phillip wanted all of Kashmar, he would have to take the city and its fortress.

Tyrant Ormaz sat on his exalted throne atop the five steps of his dais and permitted a survivor to lay his head on the lowest step. A box lay on a table by Ormaz's right hand. It was seamless, made from sandstone polished to such high gloss that clouds seemed to hover in its depths. The lid was inlaid with lapis lazuli: futobel antlers surmounted with four stars. Ormaz had seen inside the box, so there wasn't any need to leave it open now. Zaid would still be in there. For some reason Ormaz couldn't fathom, the rebels chose to chop off Zaid's head and then treat it as an honored relic. They could have left his face in an expression of terror, but he appeared to be sleeping after a hard day of work. They washed and combed him, preserved his flesh, and put life-like color on his skin. Even the box was a work of art, though it should have borne Zaid's sigil if they meant to honor him. As a message, it didn't make sense. The Pasha and the Tyrant were speaking different languages.

" am confused," intoned the Tyrant, "about a great many things."

He looked down at the soldier who delivered the box. His uniform showed the stains, burns, and tears of long marches and multiple battles. The soldier's attempt to clean it only highlighted its difficult history. The Calique field commander, Dread Ma'Tocha, picked him out when they passed Morufu's Teeth and sent him to the Tyrant on a fast mount, bearing the sandstone box.

"For example: Why are you still alive? Why did you not die in battle, as any Kashmari soldier should when he loses the war, his comrades, and all of his princes? Why did you not fight to the death?"

"I did, my Tyrant, many times," spoke the soldier into the floor, "but death never took me."

Ormaz paused to consider the novel answer. A younger prince might have taken the man's head, but any prince who reached the upper ranks knew better than to kill messengers. Bad news was the most important kind.

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"Raise your head and speak. Tell about your battles in the south."

The soldier raised his head but kept his eyes on Ormaz's feet, too awed to raise them higher. He spoke of covering a healer with his own body to keep her safe, on the night the disciples died. He was pierced with arrows, but he survived and was healed. He entered Bitter Spring as a member of the advance party, cut his way through bloodvine thorns, and breathed its poisoned pollen, yet survived and was healed again. He went down into the wadi at Laggard's Shaft, was burned by weapons of horror, and prepared to throw himself into the maw of monsters shrouded in night but was ordered to retreat. The unit he was with was ambushed twice on the road, and each time, men next to him died while he was untouched. Trapped between Morufu's Sore and the Cobbles, he held the line to let other men cross the trench to safety, prepared to die for his fellow soldiers, only for the Calique to disperse without warning. Then came the storm, the Final Storm, the one that killed ten thousand men. He was struck by lightning near the heart, and yet he lived.

He spread his tattered uniform jacket to show his Tyrant the fading wound: a network of reddened skin, like a branching fern, spreading from his heart. "In Laggard's Shaft, I knew this war would kill me. I gave up on life. After the Final Storm, I gave up on death."

After some deliberation with his Prime Minister, Ormaz decided to release the messenger from military service. A man seeking death could still have uses, but what was he supposed to do with someone who'd given up on death? The soldier would be kept in the palace for a while, to give a more thorough account of his misadventures, and sent home with his final pay when it was done.

Assuming the messenger wasn't delusional, the army's situation went far beyond defeat. The invasion force was annihilated. That was the message. They sent him a man who'd seen every battle with Zaid and happened to live through it all, someone eloquent enough to tell the story. Zaid's head was supporting evidence.

Thirty princes rode with the invasion, virtually all of the next generation of leadership. The event was supposed to be a final test, a last filter to separate the best from the merely good. Instead of receiving refined gems at the end of their quest, Ormaz found himself without viable heirs. There were a few lackluster princes of the right age in the bottom half, each with their uses, but no one who could be a capable Tyrant.

Ormaz was nearly sixty, the age when ruling became more difficult. And yet, he would have to start again. The concubines, schooling, lessons, reprimands, goadings, and rewards. All of it had to start over. Maybe there was talent below the rankings, someone who was overlooked because they lacked connections, and he could shave a few years from his labor. In any event, he now had at least twenty years before he stepped down. There was every chance he would die before an heir was truly ready to ascend. Even worse, Ormaz could rule while drifting into senility.

If only he could give the crown to Prime Minister Gobert, who was ten years his junior. That would buy them time, at least. But Gobert didn't believe in Hadith's Line. He didn't believe in the Promised Destiny. His pragmatism, so useful in a functionary, was a fatal flaw in a Tyrant who must be unyielding.

"Summon the Prelate and the Depot Master. I want to question them, together."

Lately, Ormaz had done his best work lying down on a couch in his private office. It was easier to think when his back and hips weren't hurting. Signs of age he'd have to endure for a long time to come. Gobert sat nearby.

"This pasha is well-read, or he's very clever." Gobert flipped through boards reporting the Calique advance. "He's sowing seeds of rebellion by being kind to serfs. They'll remember the enemy was kinder than their lords."

Ormaz dismissed his Prime Minister's worry. "The serfs can't do anything about it. Tell me about their forces."

"Fifteen hundred mounted, with shields, spears, and swords. Most also carry bows, but their skill is uneven. Nine disciples, with three to four bulwarks each, grouped into three cadres. The cadres carry spears, darts, shields, swords, and slings. There are rumors of a ballista, but we haven't seen any."

"How do you think they'll take the Citadel without siege weapons?"

"They don't need them," Gobert claimed. "They can break down any wall with their slings."

"Not our walls. Juca DeSintra tried once and failed. You were only one year old at the time, but I watched her from the battlements. Disciple stones bounce off the wall like toy marbles. If that's their plan, they'll fail. How is the city?"

"Things have calmed down. Word has spread that the Pasha hasn't attacked anything. They don't have a navy, so they can't attack by sea. The people feel safe. But, there have been some disappearances: Princely wives with sons have gone missing. The first incident was a week ago, the day the garrison at the Teeth was compromised."

"Lines at the gate," remembered Ormaz, "we had to seal it overnight."

"Several of Taraneh's guards were found at Zaid's concubine's house, all dead. No sign of the concubine or her children. Taraneh claims she sent men to protect her and doesn't know what happened. Other women with children of the line have vanished since then. Okber's second wife. Samir's third. Two of Hassam's concubines."

There was always some hidden violence between rival wives, especially in the upper ranks. Boys disappeared or met with accidents. New wives were murdered by bandits while traveling to join their husbands. A child sick with a common illness was given the wrong medicine and died. There was a name for it: wife-knifing.

Since so many wife-knifings were family affairs, evidence was too easy to explain away. Taraneh's claim to send armed men to Jaida's house out of concern was plausible enough to cover her homicidal intent. Too many open seats tended to increase violence. Thirty open seats would kindle ambition up and down the Hadith Line, and drive the wives into a frenzy.

"So it's already started." Ormaz stifled a groan. A little bloodletting between wives was acceptable when they had a surplus of children and a deep bench of princes. Now was not the time for rampant wife-knifing. Ormaz's situation wasn't unique, and there was a standard remedy.

"Take the top-ranked one hundred sons under eleven and bring them to the Citadel. Hire as many nursemaids as we have to. We're setting up the nursery. Send me the list when you have it, organized by age."

Enough Princes' families would be moved out of the Citadel to make room for children and their new caretakers. Boys of the Hadith Line over eleven years old were in school or training and closely watched so they couldn't kill each other while they were supposed to be learning to work together. The younger sons were protected by their fathers, but thirty of those fathers had died in recent weeks. Now, the boys had to be protected from the ambitions of their fathers' other wives, or the seats of Assembly Hall could not be properly filled.

Gobert nodded in understanding. Managing the queue of princes, present and future, was a large part of their work. Only a fraction of the boys would be serviceable as princes, so they needed enough in every age range to maintain a steady flow of candidates. One hundred boys was a good start. They could bulk up the thin years by drawing from lower-ranked princes.

Tyrant Ormaz and Prime Minister Gobert continued their work until the summoned officials arrived.