Page 93 of The Cradle of Ice

Thankfully, his father would seek a speedier method of passage.

“I’ll leave in an arrowsprite. Such a ship will have me there and back in two days, three at most.” He stood and swept up his cloak from his chair and held it toward Jubayr. “Until then, my son, you will take up my mantle.”

Jubayr sat stunned for a breath, then obeyed his father. He stood, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape. His father came around and secured the cloak about his shoulders, though Makar kept the imperial circlet atop his head.

Makar waved to those gathered around the table. “Lean on them, my son, but trust your own heart. I’ve raised you well. This is a burden you can easily carry until I return.”

With the heavy cloak weighting his shoulders, he was not sure that was true. He found it harder to breathe. Still, he reached up and secured the cloak’s clasp around his neck.

“I will not fail you, Father.”

Final details were discussed around the table. Most fell on Jubayr’s deaf ears as he struggled with his new position. Once matters were settled, his father whisked away, striding purposefully, determined to seek the Augury’s counsel.

Jubayr stared at those who would serve that role for him. A long stretch of silence settled over the room, as if all were suddenly unsure of their status.

Shield Angelon finally stood, bowing his head, asking permission to speak. The leader of the empire’s ground forces, in his fifth decade, was a fourth cousin. His dark features were split by a white scar across his forehead.

Jubayr lifted a hand, having to shake loose a flap of the cloak to do so. “What is it?”

“Draer has already related at length about our readiness to act against the forces beyond the borders. But I think we must now address the threats within our own walls. There were two attacks by the Shayn’ra this past night. The Fist of God burned a pair of supply wagons headed to a southwest garrison, and another group ambushed guardsmen outside a tavern, stripping them of their gear and carving the Shayn’ra symbol of an awakening eye into their chests.”

Jubayr’s jaw tightened. He had to force words out of his mouth. “And what do you recommend?”

“Emperor Makar has been reluctant to bring the full strength of the Shield upon those rebels, even after the attempted abduction of your sister.”

Jubayr nodded, having taken part in those debates. “He fears rousing the baseborn to the Shayn’ra if we are too heavy-handed. Especially as the Fist have proven themselves to be mostly nuisances in the past. My father believes they’ve only grown bolder of late due to the attack on Ekau Watch, taking advantage of our distraction elsewhere.”

“That may be true, but they’ve grown even more emboldened following the abduction of your siblings. Prior to this, the baseborn were already warming to them, swelling their numbers. The Fist achieved this by plying the lower castes with rewards. I wager the grain and meat stolen from those burned supply wagons were distributed at large, buying support by filling bellies.”

“So, you would have us act now?”

“And firmly. Especially before they learn that the emperor has vacated the city. I have a proposition, a way to bait a trap. With the Fist of God already growing and spreading like a pestilence—and likely to expand during this crisis—it may be our last chance to rip them out by the roots and secure their leader, Tazar hy Maar, before the Shayn’ra grow too strong.”

Jubayr searched the faces of the others. Most remained stoic, not willing to commit. But two of his father’s Chaaen gave small nods of agreement.

As Jubayr struggled with this decision, he felt the heavy weight of his father’s cloak. He knew it was a burden he must eventually shoulder. He stared down at his caked palms, the hands of an executioner.

It was a role he knew well, one from which he could draw strength and honor during this time of chaos. He pictured handing the head of Tazar hy Maar to his father upon his return.

He looked over to the Shield.

“Rally whom you must and make it so.”

40

TAZAR HY MAAR crouched in the low croft above a saddlery. The stinging stench of urine-soaked hides drying in the shop’s yard wafted into the cramped space, carried on the slight breeze through the open attic window. He stared from his high vantage across the open market square.

The moon hung at the horizon, heralding the start of a new day in another few bells. This early, the shadowy square lay quiet, with shops boarded shut and the surrounding streets mostly empty. A lone cart wended across the cobbles, drawn by a swaybacked mare, the drover half dozing in his seat. The horse hung its head low, equally dull to the world. The poor beast surely knew its path, having trod it countless times.

The pair were emblematic of the entire city.

Locked forever to one path, blinkered to all around.

Tazar intended to change that, to rip off those blinders and end the tyranny of empires. The goal fired his blood, fueled by all he had learned in his two decades in the city.

As a boy, he had studied at the Bad’i Chaa, not as a castrated acolyte, but as a baseborn servant at the House of Wisdom. His mother had taught him to read when he was barely a babe, which gave him the keys to the knowledge locked within those dire walls. He had stolen books, eavesdropped on classes as he mopped floors, and found a handful of mentors among the students who took pity on the scullery boy. Later, it required the trading of intimate pleasures to pay for the continuation of his secret schooling.

His education was unique in other ways, too. He had not been restrained by the rigors of that scholarly prison. He had the freedom to study what he wanted, without fear of breaking scholastic dictates or imperial indoctrination. He had read of open societies, with less stringent mores, and desired it for himself, and later for everyone trapped in their baseborn castes, unable to ever rise above their stations.