Pyrebound - 12.1
Author: theredsheep

Twelve: A Bull Gone Rogue – Pyrebound

The role of religion in the Dominion is paradoxical. The ensis are the official leaders of pyres, the lugals their delegates. Acolytes and handmaidens are everywhere. Yet actual worship is relatively brief and subdued, with extended services reserved for times of special need, such as wars, or for emergencies. Most of the words employed, in all cases, are about the needs of the humans concerned, or the worth of the clergy who serve them. The precise nature of the god of the golden sun is no more wondered at than that of the sun itself. Both are simply and reliably there.

There are a number of myths about Haranduluz, of course, most of them very old, many of them inscrutable or contradictory. These are told to children everywhere, but are too irrelevant to daily life for anyone to bother over questioning them. Even the children learn to prefer stories of human heroes, before long.

The hearth was a mirror image of Urapu as Ram had known it growing up: grazing land one side of the river, growing land on the other, and a little huddle of brick buildings looking like an afterthought off to one side. The tower—had Urapu’s been that short? Everything looked smaller from the air. “Try to land outside of the farmland this time, would you? It makes a better impression when we don’t smash their crops.”

“It’s all farmland,” Rinti objected. “Except the pasture, and when we land there you yell at us for scaring the cows. I don’t want to land out in the middle of nowhere. We get all sweaty and gross when we walk a mile just to get there.”

“We’ve never had to—oh, never mind. Just set us down here. No animals for a couple of hundred feet.” Their landing, at least, was perfectly smooth, thanks to all the practice Mana had gotten. “All right,” he called. “Everyone out.” Everyone in this case meant literally everyone, except for one of the bondsmen who’d run away two nights back. There didn’t seem to be any danger to fear at places like … “What’s this one called again?”

“Rumshiza hearth,” Shennai said, somewhat testily. They’d been over this already. “Farthest north of Karagi’s dependencies.”

“Right.” They might get half a gold out of the jar here, if they were lucky.

They’d spent the last tetrad visiting Dul Karagi’s hearths at random. They showed up, declared Lugal Jushur a usurper, had Shimrun make the tower fire dance as a demonstration, and confiscated everything in the offering jar before they left again. The locals seldom had anything to say; they were used to cowering when visitors from the pyre showed up, and as far as they were concerned anyone in a skybarque qualified as more of the same.

They’d been taught to fear the name “Rammash im-Belemel,” of course. Ram tried to correct that, being as non-threatening as he could. But it really didn’t matter to them whether Ram was a bazu-made sorcerer, as they’d all been told, or the true en. These people had no power over their circumstances, could only cringe and obey. If men from the pyre showed up later, and got angry about the stolen gold, they would cringe and obey again.

Which made these missions, ultimately, quite pointless. Spreading the word among powerless people did no good, and he’d told Shimrun as much. Even the money wouldn’t help if they had no longer-term plan to apply it towards, and they didn’t. The reality of that had set in for Ram, as the reality of Gelibara’s death had set in for the others. For the time being, they would do best to keep moving, so nobody would have time to work themselves into a depressive fit.

But this was Karagi’s last hearth. Motioning for Darun to stand off, he fell in beside Shimrun for the walk to the hearth. “So. Any plans for where we go after this?”

“You know the answer … to that. No. No plans. I thought you were … the one who decided?”

He still didn’t know how to handle the Ensi when he was feeling petulant like this. “I’ll take any help I can. You know more about the magic part of all this, at least. What should we do?”

Shimrun walked on for some time before answering. “I don’t want war.”

“I don’t think any of us do. Do you want to find another site for Dul Shimrun?”

“Do you think there is one to find? Be honest.”

“Then don’t ask. I’m not a child. Just shaped like one.”

“I know.” He didn’t want responsibility, and resented being asked what to do. But he also resented having decisions made for him. Or having someone point out that resenting both was unhelpful. There were no limits to how many different things he could resent, especially when he saw Pimna to take his medicine five or ten times a day. He’d been taking orders from her since he was in diapers.

And there was no use in Ram resenting that. One didn’t grow up with a man like Father without learning to accept the odd burst of self-destructive pigheadedness. How had Mother dealt with it? She hadn’t ever managed to turn her husband from a set decision, exactly, but she could still steer him well enough. Which, Ram abruptly realized, was more or less what Darun did—but that wasn’t the sort of talent you could pick up on a short walk, anyway.

Focus on the possible. “If you want, Busu and I can sneak in sometime with Shennai, and see what’s going on in the pyre.”

“If they recognize you … they’ll kill you. What can you do, that’s worth that risk?”

“Keep asking that question, and you’ll rule out doing anything at all.”

Shimrun stopped abruptly. “I know.” He threw up his hands. “But … I only get one try! I don’t have … anything to work with. I have to save … what I can.”

“That’s not how the world works.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He gestured to the fields of the hearth, where dozens of bondswomen and their children were bent over weeding. “Like that. I’ve only ever seen plants … in the Painted Room, until this last bloom. Give me a chance to learn.”

“You didn’t know a damn thing about Urapu when you blasted it into pebbles. But you’re curious now?” He shook his head, and moved on.

The women in the field lifted their heads as Ram’s group passed by, but didn’t look at them directly. There had to be a certain comfort for people like them in knowing that, whoever these strangers were, nothing they did would affect the rhythm of their lives. The working women ignored Ram because they could afford to; they knew where they would be tomorrow. Ram envied them.

The freedmen had taken the lead of their party, as usual; they entertained hopes of recruiting some women. The oldest of them wasn’t twenty-five—Ram could see why they’d all run away from Jatu, where women were just one more luxury import. Busu, being Busu, wasn’t far behind them, and arranged for them to hang back when they got to the gate so the indwelt folk could catch up. It was the same ruse they’d tried at the last five hearths, but none of the women in the fields here showed interest either.

Ram only wanted to get this over with. He brushed past the posturing freedmen, in through the wide-open gate, down the predictable main thoroughfare between the all-too-familiar tenements. The streets were laid out just like Urapu’s had been, just like a dozen other hearths. Just like seeds planted in the farm outside, methodically, mechanically, with no imagination or concern for the little eccentricities of human wants. This place was a product, a tool.

It was midday, just the time for the streets to be deserted. Everyone was eating lunch, or resting. So much the better. The few people on the streets hurried out of his way—they could see Beshi clearly enough—and he didn’t bother to excuse himself or acknowledge them as he made his way to the giant offering-jar at the base of the tower. Without ceremony, he picked it up and upended it. Nothing fell out.

He shook it, hard, to be sure. Empty. More than a month after the last assessment, Rumshiza hearth had nothing to give? Either this place had some kind of very special arrangement with Dul Karagi … or something was very wrong here. He threw the jar against the tower wall, was turned around with Beshi drawn before the shards had settled in the dust.

The rest of the team were halfway down the street; they froze in place. The handful of pedestrians did likewise, staring at Ram. All around the central plaza, men and women looked out the windows of their homes. Nobody spoke.

Darun was the first to move again, sidling forward and giving Ram a go-on gesture: whatever you do, keep moving! Probably good advice.

“My name,” he called, “is Rammash im-Belemel. I am sure you’ve heard it.” And they had—every one of them startled—but they didn’t say anything. Only looked at each other. How did Shimrun’s usual spiel go? He’d always ignored it while he counted the money with Darun. “Whatever you’ve heard about me is a lie, a lie spread by desperate and dishonest men with no right to power. I am the rightful En of Dul Karagi, and I’m here to tell you there’s a better way to live.”

Still silent. But a man about twenty-five, standing just inside the plaza, crossed his arms. “A few days ago, we destroyed the Lugal’s Palace, and punished the men who supported him. We didn’t try to kill anyone. This isn’t a killing matter, yet. We only want justice.” Darun shook her head, and scratched the palm of her hand pointedly. What was in it for these people?

“You ever think how well you could live, if the Lugal didn’t always take your money? He doesn’t need what he takes from you, and neither do we. You don’t need to live in constant fear of going into bondage—“

A girl’s voice shrieked. Something hard crashed into the side of his head. He fell over. And everything went to hell at once.

He felt three more impacts as he rose up on hands and knees; he looked up, and a small, dark object flew into his face, breaking his nose. Rocks. They were throwing rocks. He kept his head down and rushed the young man who’d crossed his arms, taking another stone to the shoulder as he did. Damn, these people could throw. Did they have slings?

Another rock, to the back of the head. Ram’s vision turned to grey clouds. More screams, one high-pitched and gurgling. What the hell was going on? The young man was running away. The haranu was healing Ram, but the rocks kept coming. Shelter. Ram needed shelter. He ran for the nearest door, took it sword-first. It exploded in splinters around him, and he was through. More screams, a dim-lit room. A small table was in front of him; he threw it behind him, to block the doorway.

He was in a house much like his old home in Urapu. The room’s gawking occupants had run out into the courtyard. Behind him, he could hear shouts, and a rock flew in the window next to him. If he went back out there, he’d face a mob, ready to pelt him. They knew this hearth better than he did, so sneaking through a side door was out. Where to?

If this was like his house … he ran into the courtyard, ignoring the terrified family, and out to into the back room. Thank the God for standardized construction. Father’d used this big back space for a workshop; this family had a lot of pots and junk here instead, but the stairs were the same. Ram took the whole flight in three lunging steps, and threw himself flat on the rooftop before anyone could see him.

He was whole again already, not even breathing hard, but his mind still needed a moment to recover, and he took it, laying his head flat on the warm brick. He could hear a familiar booming sound rolling down the street. A handmaiden was setting off flares. Rocks wouldn’t be much of a match for holy fire—but the blasts were coming fast and close. Damn it. He scrambled back up to his feet and ran for it, jumping to the next building easily.

The street below was already cluttered with dead men and rubble; as Ram ran across the rooftops, a house collapsed in a flash of gold light. Mana and Rinti stood back to back in the middle of it all, hurling flames at nothing Ram could see, while Pimna and Shennai hunched over something on the ground. Ram took a flying leap off the nearest surviving roof before the girls could cave it in, and landed in a painful heap in the street.

The air was thick with hot dust, and shook with screams and the crunch of exploding brick. Pimna and Shennai ignored it all. Shimrun lay between them, gurgling and twisting, his hands slapping erratically at his stomach. As Ram watched, there was a little flash of light, and Pimna drew a mangled bar of iron out of his innards. There were two others lying next to her already. Bullspikes. That looked like the last of them, but Shimrun was still making little hacking screams. Either they’d left a bit in there, or he’d lost his mind. Or both.

There wasn’t a house left standing for a hundred feet, but the girls were still sweeping their way around and out, leveling one after the other. They’d never hear him, so he grabbed them and shook them till they stopped. “Hey! That’s enough!”

Slowly, the dust settled, and Ram was free to look around. There were … twelve dead bodies around, that he could see. No, thirteen—one was half-buried under a heap of bricks. There’d be more in the houses. Shit. He looked for haranuu—yes, there was a flamekeeper’s sword lying on the ground next to one of them. Busu. There was no telling what had killed him now. And Darun? Where was she?

Before he could ask, Pimna rose to her feet, clenching her fists. Her Ensi was still gurgling pitifully into the dirt behind her. “Bastards!” she screamed. “Worthless bastards! Traitors! I wished you every good, and this is how you repay me?”

“Pimna, calm down. This isn’t help—“

“Bastards!” she repeated. “When have you ever thought of anyone but yourselves? What am I to you? Could you not wait three blooms? Do you think the world will give you endless men to die for you, just so you can keep up your wretched little lives? No! It will not! You will not! You have raised your hand against your Ensi! Karagi’s own heir! Now you burn! Now you end! Now you die!”

The tower flashed. Five houses collapsed. Ram looked down, and saw Shimrun, still coughing and spitting into the dust, but raised up on his trembling hands to look on with ghastly satisfaction. A thick string of drool fell off his chin into the dust. Pimna bellowed, “How many do I have to kill before you let me live in peace? I won’t stop until you do! I will live, bastards! You cannot take my time from me!”

Ram reached for Shimrun, and fell back gasping with a searing pain in his chest. “Three blooms!” Pimna’s voice cracked. “Three! No less! You will not take them from me! Do you know what three is, idiots? I will show you!” Ram heard three loud booms, one after the other, from the direction of the plaza. “Three! That was three! Do you want three more?”

“Stop it! Stop it, Shimrun!”

Pimna turned, looked down at Mana, who glowered back with her hands on her hips. “Mana?” Her voice shook. “But Mana, they tried to—“

“This isn’t right, Shimrun,” she growled. “Let her go.” She looked down at her Ensi, who didn’t look nearly so happy any more. “You can talk for yourself.”

“Can’t,” he corrected her hoarsely, in his own voice. Pimna gasped, and sat down hard. She ran trembling hands over herself, as if she weren’t quite certain everything was still there. Shennai put a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, you can, Shimrun!” Beside her, Rinti nodded faintly. She leaned against her younger friend, looking ready to faint.

“They tried … to kill me,” Shimrun said, raising himself to his knees with obvious difficulty. “I never … hurt …”

“What happened?” Ram interrupted, though he had a fair idea.

“Four or five men, I think,” Shennai said. “They were hiding in an alley with bullspikes. I couldn’t catch them in time.”

Ram grabbed his hair with both hands. “You … “ He couldn’t think of a suitably strong epithet. “Do you think these people got a choice? Do you think Urapu got a choice? There’s just trying to survive. They don’t know who you are. They know nothing. Nothing!”

“Probably met those guys yesterday. Volunteer flamekeepers, I bet—you couldn’t get blackbands to sign up for something this dangerous. Told them the bad dangerous wizard who took out Urapu hearth was coming to get them too, and their only hope of survival was to cooperate. And you just proved them right!”

For a long moment, Shimrun only stared, stupidly, with his mouth open. Then he burst into tears. Nobody said or did anything to comfort him.

“Like that’s going to help,” he snarled, and forced himself back to his feet. His chest still burned, a little. “Thank you, Mana.” And fuck you, Yellow God. Fuck you for doing this to me. To them. To all of us. “Darun?” he called.

Nobody answered. The hearth was silent, except for Shimrun’s idiot blubbering. Ram couldn’t see a single living human. He looked to Shennai. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Too much happened, too quickly. I don’t know where she went.”

And Ram wouldn’t blame her for not coming back, after this. If she was even alive.