Author: theredsheep

Chapter 16.4 – Pyrebound

In a way, it had been a splendid victory. Dul Karagi alone had fought off a shab host, and taken very few civilian casualties. But Barenmul, as Ram had plainly seen, was finished. Virtually all of its stored food, and ninety percent of its housing, had been destroyed, and much of its cropland ruined. The people who had already left did not come back, and those who remained had no lives to return to; Etana’s great challenge for the next several tetrads was keeping the lot from starvation, and finding places for them to stay.

His difficulties were aggravated by a sudden manpower shortage. Many of his flamekeepers had died in the streets of Barenmul, and only twenty-four of Ram’s new militia reported for payment two days after the battle; it wasn’t clear how many were dead and how many had simply deserted. Either way, it was one man in ten remaining, and Dul Karagi was on edge.

No pyre paid and equipped an army of elite warriors merely to protect its handmaidens for an hourlong battle every twelve months. Flamekeepers were meant to keep the peace, and if Ram had never much cared for them as a class, he had learned enough over the past bloom to worry about what would happen in their absence. Many of the citizenry were angry now, and frightened. If the pyre’s official bullies could not keep order, the countenance system would certainly come to the fore, and the proud patriarchs of the great families at the top would become the generals in a hopeless war of all against all.

Etana’s solution to both his problems was grotesque, but sensible: he drafted every young Barenmula man into military service, with his first orders being to sift through the ruins of his home for usable weaponry. They would all be militia, of course; class prejudice aside, hearthborn men wouldn’t be able to navigate the murkily political world of the Lugal’s retainers. The Barenmula accepted with few complaints—they had nowhere else to go. Everyone unfit for the miltia was left to salvage and repair duty, in the hopes that the hearth might be viable again in a kindling. They trusted to their enlisted kinsmen to earn them their keep.

Ram counted himself lucky that he had his own relatively straightforward problems to deal with instead. He had not forgotten his vision in the rains, only deferred it in the face of the more urgent threat. As the Lugal shifted more and more of his attention to keeping the pyre stable and secured, Ram found himself at perfect liberty—with far more power than he would have expected.

Both of them had failed to save Barenmul, but Ram had played the more active and visible role in salvaging what he could. Many of Etana’s supporters were dead, and the remainder, like his new auxiliaries, had seen the God’s light destroy the invaders. Who was the real war leader now? Ram didn’t know, but Etana seemed indisposed to raise the question, and turned a blind eye as his Ensi increasingly took the kind of independent actions which normally would have required the Lugal’s personal seal and signature to authorize. Ram could commission work from the murrush, commandeer the pyre’s craft for his personal use, draw vast credit from the banks in Dul Karagi’s name, and never hear a word of official displeasure.

He rewarded that compelled and grudging trust by becoming a virtual hermit within the pyre, leaving the Temple or Palace only when absolutely necessary for his plans to liberate Dul Atellu. And he needed every moment; much as he yearned to destroy Mannagiri—little as he liked leaving him enthroned on his heap of extorted wealth with his army of abused women—he would have to succeed on the first try. No amount of flattery or bribery would buy them peace again after a failed attempt on the tyrant’s life.

Somehow, a month and more passed in outward, uneasy peace. Boat after boat went up the Teshalun, bearing gifts, or flew the skies bearing Ram’s messages to other pyres. All the while a different convoy of tinap messengers was passing under the water, keeping up a maddeningly delayed conversation with the increasingly anxious Matriarch of Dul Atellu. The whole plan depended on her support, and required her to do something that had never, to Ram’s knowledge, been done before.

It seemed to Ram as if it ought to be simple enough, but it was as unprecedented, and the political ambiguity made it harder for the old tinap lady to bear. She had helped him before under duress, without a contract; now he was asking her help to kill the highest human authority she had ever dealt with. Even as she saw the necessity of it—Mannagiri had broken too many of his pyre’s agreements to count, which offended her terribly—Ram’s plan was scarcely less offensive to her propriety. He could only take it slow, and patiently cajole her.

It was nearly the nadir of the bloom before Ram boarded a skybarque for Dul Natati, early one morning on the peak of a tetrad. Everything had been arranged in advance, and gone smoothly enough. The name of Rammash tem-Karagi was by now enough to push through any number of irregular if not outright bizarre requests.

Most notably, a hundred of Dul Natati’s handmaidens were, at the time he landed, pouring all the flame they could into the river, creating an enormous plume of steam visible from miles away. They had been doing it in shifts since last evening, at Ram’s request, and the whole area was by now so hot as to force all traffic away from the waterside. He hadn’t even told them why they were doing it.

The main difficulty had been convincing them that he was serious—he couldn’t recall how much money he’d offered, something north of a hundred gold tanbirs. If this worked, they would not care that he didn’t have the money to pay them; if it didn’t, he would likely be dead, and they would have far larger problems. As it cost them nothing but a day of lost revenue—and likely a lot of dead fish—they were content to comply, and see what happened. Curiosity was a powerful incentive. No doubt they noticed that the steam was clearly drifting northward, but Ram didn’t think they would guess the significance. Even if they somehow discovered that he’d made an identical request of Dul Shebnai, Atellu’s neighbor to the north.

Ram landed, and found a local barque waiting for him with its customary crew of three, again as requested. He had not told them their destination in advance, but they did not seem surprised when he told them to head upstream. The only cargo, besides Ram, was a good-sized chest, which he carried aboard himself. Once they were off, he directed the ladies to stay as low to the water as they could, and not to disturb him except for an emergency. Then he retreated to the hold. The timing of the next part would be sensitive.

He found Shennai and Pimna’s haranuu right next to each other in their dismal little room, huddled together for the little comfort and human contact it provided. It was their usual posture, these days; they had been practically entombed alive, and seemed to enjoy to his brief “visits,” when they could get news. He gathered Mannagiri had forgotten he had them, and they sometimes missed meals when everyone else did too.

He fell into Shennai this time—he still couldn’t tell them apart from a distance. He would have preferred to speak to Shennai through Pimna, but this was no time to be picky, and he didn’t like the thought that any part of this should be convenient for him. “This is Ram,” he said. “I’m coming.”

Pimna was staring at the floor, and took a long time to stir. He was just on the verge of repeating himself when she lifted her head and said, “Coming, are you? Good. It’s about time.”

“I know it’s been hard. I’m sorry. And … you know there’s no way to guarantee you’ll come out of this alive, don’t you? In fact, it’s not likely. You deserve better than this, after everything I’ve put you through. If you don’t want to go through with it, I understand.”

All stupor and lethargy vanished from Pimna’s face, and she gave him a look that suggested he had once again disappointed her already drastically-lowered expectations of him. “Obviously I would prefer to see the sun again. But if I don’t, do you have any idea what it means to serve, young man? I’ve dedicated my life to helping my pyre in whatever way I can. We all have. That is how a handmaiden lives. Or did you think courage and resolve were only for men with weapons?”

He switched hosts so he wouldn’t have to answer. “Shennai. What about you?”

The old woman smiled, a very thin smile. “Most of my sisters do not live much past my present age in the first place. I have been given a chance, a precious chance, to make right the kindlings of my life I have misspent. If this is how I must end it all, I can only say that the God has a poetic frame of mind. Let it be the seal of my life, and this most broken of boys my executioner.”

“Shennai, you don’t have to—“

“Lord Rammash.” She stood up to face the door. “We have our duties. You have yours. Let us tend to them.”

“Fair enough. Just shut the door for now; I’ve still got a ways to go. Goodbye, Shunnar. Thank you, Pimna.”

The barque flew swiftly on as Ram opened his chest. Inside was a newly-made suit of heavy armor—sleeves and leggings of chain, breastplate, and backplate, with the awkward flaps to cover his thighs. The helmet came last, a heavy lump of metal leaving only a little space around the eyes so he could see. Every bit of it was extravagantly ugly, and uncomfortable to boot, but neither could be helped.

He’d had it made from swords whose masters had died at Barenmul. Tendrils of bronze looped around and over the flattened steel in a manner that aimed for artful but barely managed garish. The murrush of the Tegnembassaga had welcomed the novel challenge of reshaping indwelt metal; the spirits inside were ambivalent at best about having their purpose changed for them. Even so, Ram knew they would protect their Ensi better than anything else he could get.

His appearance did not reassure the women on the top deck, who were already a touch concerned by the dark cloud on the horizon. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t think there will be any lightning.” Nobody asked him how he could know that. Or even stopped scowling.

They had passed the last of Atellu’s hearths already, were rapidly drawing near to the pyre proper. Game preserves and pleasure gardens rushed away below them, the former resorts of High Atellu’s elite. Now they were haunted by Mannagiri’s tame flocks of carrion-picking Moonchildren, who rode their brutes insolently through arbors, and let them drink at decorative pools. Several looked up, startled, as they passed overhead.

He’d ordered Shennai and Pimna to collapse the hallway leading to their room—a calculated risk. Mannagiri might well suspect now that Ram was attempting something desperate. He wouldn’t know for sure until they started trying to bring down the rest of the Temple as well, firing blind in all directions. They almost certainly couldn’t, but it would make an admirable distraction.

Now it was better for Ram to worry about the danger to himself. With his new suit on, Ram couldn’t possibly be more conspicuous to another ensi’s eyes. Very soon, their delicate little craft would be in striking range; it was time to disarm the pyre.

Fortunately, half a season in power had mellowed Mannagiri somewhat, and given him a taste for a broader variety of extravagance. Great mountains of tribute had been piling up on his docks, and he had elected to put it to use, Ram heard, in a series of outlandish monuments to himself. As he’d already killed or sold much of Atellu’s own artisan class, he’d been compelled to hire foreign labor—and more than a few foreign handmaidens, who had skills his own lacked. The obvious security risks were evidently outweighed by the sordid satisfaction he got from making other priests’ “brides” work to praise him.

So the mad ensi no longer took any notice of unfamiliar haranuu hanging about his fire. He hadn’t even noticed that one in particular had been sitting still in Low Atellu for three days now, in the very shrine he had taken Ram and company to for their tinap medicines. Now Ram directed his attention to that little spark by the riverside—the only spirit he recognized as his own.

It was Erimana. He could have asked any number of other handmaidens to do this, of course, and many would have been better suited to the task. They could speak more clearly, wouldn’t grow bored so easily. There was even a risk—a very small risk—that she would be somehow seen and recognized, though she’d hardly ever set foot outside the shrine. All of these considerations were outweighed by the thought that, when men spoke of this day later, they might remember it was a reshmarked girl who freed the Teshalun.

He found her sitting quietly in the elderly attendant’s bedroom, trying to read one of his devotional texts while he pored over the shrine’s accounts. “It’s time, Harram,” he said, through her lips. “Bring down the rain.” The old man looked up, startled, but hesitated for only a second before hurrying away.

The storm at Dul Karagi had given Ram only a very general idea of what needed to be done. He hadn’t even been sure it was possible until he spoke with the Matriarch, who assured him that the magical aspect of it was simple enough. A simplified version, in fact, of something he had seen at work himself, every time he went to the Goddess’s shrine in Urapu.

A wellspring, as it turned out, did not create water from nothing in the same way a pyre made fire. It could only make existing water feel an attraction for a particular location, and move there in spite of its nature. Underground water would move against gravity, even around impermeable layers, to reach the place a matriarch had blessed. This little miracle could last for almost a century once the quickened egg was offered.

But Ram didn’t need a century, only a day, and nothing so dramatic as flowing uphill through solid earth. Natati and Shebnai had put a great deal of water into the air last night, and the air was a natural enough place for warm water vapor to be. The Matriarch had strained herself only a little, and given up five or six unfertilized eggs, to gather that drifting mist together at a point directly over High Atellu.

Now, at Ram’s command, she worked her magic again, at the top of the cliffs above her. The exact spot didn’t much matter—the enchantment would not be very precise, being a crude and temporary measure. The original spell’s power was already fading. When she issued her new command, it was stronger, and the water obeyed. The rain fell.

Rain, in Ram’s experience, began as a few drops, before progressing to a downpour. What fell on Dul Atellu was not so reticent. In moments, the whole pyre was sheathed in a billowing white fog, an unnatural torrent which hit like a hammer over a mere square mile and left the adjoining area nearly untouched. A damp wind surged out in all directions from the force of the flood, only to be sucked back in with equal violence as the newer spell reclaimed it, generating countless tiny whirlwinds in the process. Grass, trees, and shrubs bent back and forth, a million living pendulums; moonbrutes bellowed in confusion, while their riders struggled to control them. Probably a good number of them would wind up thrown and trampled, and Ram’s conscience would not be greatly troubled.

At the moment, he was more worried for himself. There was no question of getting the barque any closer; the handmaidens screamed and swore as they struggled to pull it out of the howling vortex he’d inadvertently created. “I didn’t expect it to do this!” Ram shouted. They didn’t even look at him. He waited until the barque had been nearly swatted to the earth by a particularly fierce gust before hopping overboard, landing in a tortured sycamore fig that cracked in half to break his fall.

Ram hurried to extract himself from the tangle of branches, and set out at a run as soon as his legs would bear him. He had a mile and more to go, through storm conditions, through a wind that couldn’t make up its mind whether to work with or against him. Branches, leaves, and loose earth danced in the air around him, forcing him to lower his face and trudge for the fire with his eyes half-closed. From time to time a loose rock would ding against his armor, and he would stagger on with a yelp of surprise.

Presently the storm settled into a pattern, sucking in and puffing out at intervals of a second or two. Ram was reduced to crouching and dashing forward in sync, making slow progress. Water gathered on his armor, dribbled off, and ran in rivulets toward the pyre, where he could see the spirits milling around madly, like ants from a kicked nest. With this level of turmoil, Pimna and Shennai would be no more than an afterthought, no matter what they did.

An age of stumbling later, he noticed that the air was warmer than it had been, and risked looking up. He’d come farther than he thought; the buildings of High Atellu were huddled around the knees of their temple, dim shadows in the whitened world. Water ran down the ruins of the outer wall in sheets, feeding brooks that raced impossibly away over level ground to find their appointed place within the pyre. Under his armor the moisture of the overloaded air had settled into a slick film of condensation, rushing endlessly down his body to find the ground. And yet he wasn’t cold.

Suddenly the Temple flashed, and a hot wind surged past him, just forceful enough to sway him back on his feet for a moment. He laughed. Mannagiri was attacking, with the full force he could bring to bear. Likely he’d been hurling down fire for some time already, and Ram hadn’t even noticed. He could vomit out all the heat he pleased, and the space between them would suck up the lot and ask for more, because—as any of his handmaidens could have told him—there was nothing more troublesome to heat up than a great mass of water. Every drop Mannagiri sent steaming up to heaven would be replaced by ten more, and come down seconds later after giving its heat to the winds.

Purely to be annoying, he stood in place for some time looking up at the Temple, letting the rain trickle down his face through the helmet’s slit. The great fire grew brighter and brighter, as Mannagiri sent its power down in a continuous stream. It made no difference; the attack arrived at Ram’s end as a great plume of pleasantly warm mist. He chuckled, and moved on with his hand on his sword’s hilt, wondering if he might hear a scream of impotent rage over the endless drumming of the rain.