Act Two
Interlude
The Wheel of Vengeance Unending
Jaqu Rovan stood upon the deck of a djong, the type of large sailing ship used by Rhakan and the island kingdoms to its south and east. It was a large ship with a proud stern and low bow. It had two masts, each sporting a substantial rectangular sail. Bare-chested brown Rhakanese sailors moved about the decks in controlled chaos, trimming sails and tying down ropes. Jaqu was not a sailor. He only marvelled at the agility of the men who were. Salt spray kicked up over the sides, whipped by the wind, hitting his cold cheek. He stood with a wide stance as the ship rolled against the ocean swells. He was not accustomed to sea travel. Jaqu had spent the last several years in the deserts, wastes, and steppes in the central part of the continent. He had incited rebellion, gathered armies, and done his best to create new kingdoms where men were governed, if not by the principles of the Republic, then at least, by their own kings rather than foreign ones. Of course, those attempts had ended in disaster. Vurun had burned. The aethium fields were now ash. Ghinai, Andaban, and Unkabi were in anarchy. He knew Vastrum to be a cruel empire, but he had not understood the depths to which they would sink. He had thought Dryden a worthy adversary in the great game between Vastrum and Fyranis. Now he understood the Vastrum cavalry officer was a butcher. He could hide behind duty and honour, but the trail of corpses he left behind was too immense to conceal. He had thought Vastrum might leave if they knew they had lost the war for Vurun. Instead, they had burned it all. If they could not have the aethium, they would scorch the earth and leave none but beggars alive. Worst of all to Jaqu, they had killed Aisa An-Beya, the woman that Jaqu had loved. She had not loved him in return, he knew. She had not been capable of real love, not with all the pain she had endured. Nevertheless, she had taken him to her bed. They had been lovers for a time. He had cherished it, fought for her as much as for Fyranis, as much as for freedom from tyranny. Then she had died, been murdered, and with her, his raison d'etre.
With the burning of Vurun and the deaths of the An-Beya clan, the Northern Wastes and the riches of those trade routes were lost. The Fyrin Republic had now turned its gaze elsewhere. He had a new mission. Reestablish diplomatic relations with Sarawa Maw. Aid his war against Vastrum. Sabotage the V.A.C.’s new aethium supply from the rebellious province of Ssam. That was all secondary to Jaqu, however. All he wished for was revenge upon Major Dryden and the Bloody 13th. They had taken Aisa. They had handed him the burning wreckage of his failure, stained with the blood of his lover. Fyrin agents in Ayodh said the Butchers of Vurun were deployed somewhere in the border rajas. Going there himself was outside the scope of his mission, but he knew that anything to further the war effort of Rhakan would be a small act in service to his vendetta. Dryden would bleed, the 13th would pay, and Vastrum would burn. First, he needed to reconcile Fyrin relations with Rhakan. It was a minor miracle that Rhakanese court officials had agreed to meet with him after the assassination attempt on the new emperor and the subsequent killings of the Western ambassadors. Now, the Rhakanese djong was preparing to enter the mouth of the Ravati River, dangerous with its swirling currents and ever-shifting sandbars. The sailors of Rhakan knew it well.
He looked west. The main fleet of Vastrum was just visible on the horizon. The masts of their tall ships seemed as thick as the trees in a forest. They were preparing to invade the port city of Dagon, which lay near the mouth of the Ravati. Once they had taken that city, they would come here next, brave the dangerous mouth of the Ravati, and sail up the river to Angmaw. There was only one reason Sarawa Maw would need a Fyrin ambassador now. They needed the Fyrin fleet. Jaqu smiled inwardly. The fleet had already been assembled at the Fyrin island colony of Sachal, which lay close at hand to the south. The Fyrin navy was among the handful that could match Vastrum’s. Vastrum’s ships were superior, but the Fyrin sea witches were second to none, and the gris harvested down in Kalimai was an especially good catalyst for controlling the weather. Vastrum had their colonies, and Fyranis had theirs—a necessary evil for fighting the oppression of Vastrum.
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It took a few hours of fighting the currents for the djong to make it far enough into the river delta where the sailing was easier. The wind was coming from the south now. On the deck, an old woman with faded gold eyes softly sang what sounded like an old lullaby. He knew she was soothing the wind and water, making the ship's passage easier. Most ships could not afford such a luxury, but for such an important mission, Rhakan had provided one of their sea-singers. Like the Fyrin sea witches, the gris they used to ply their sorcery clouded their minds and broke their memories. That was the price of its power. Another hour and the ship was heaving to, and pulling into the small port of Kangyon just upriver from the mouth of the Ravati. It was not a great city, but it was a spot where Rhakanese officials often met foreigners, a kind of customs port. A large group of men stood waiting on the stone quay.
The weather at sea had been warm but breezy and comfortable, and the sun had been bearable. Almost as soon as the boat began to dock, a wall of hot and humid air hit Jaqu, and he began to sweat. The officials, dressed in red and gold, stood under bright parasols made of bamboo and silk.
The Rhakani ambassador stood with a plastered-on smile. He wore dark makeup around his eyes and on his lips and had black Rhakani writing densely tattooed on his light brown face. He stepped forward and bowed. He spoke passable Fyrin, “In the name of his most divine and terrible emperor of Rhakan, Agan, Tangong, Ssam, Desha, Aragan, Khanesh, Gura, and Dzhamuzhan, Sarawa Maw, he who dares to conquer the world, first of his house, first to choose the throne of the cruel since the great Ghalu Min, I welcome you, Fyrin. Sarawa Maw permits you to step foot in his land. You may take three steps off the boat, prostrate yourself before me, rise, and tell me what you offer my emperor. Whether you may stay after depends upon your gift.”
Jaqu stood tall. He wore a high-collared and intricately brocaded silk suit. It was the height of Fyrin fashion and presented him as an imposing figure. He had been trained in diplomacy since his youth. He had spent years in the Fyrin government, the grand assembly, and the army. He had stood before kings and warlords. He was not an easily intimidated man. Despite this, he felt small before the array of officials and guards who watched him disembark the ship. One slip of any kind, and this journey would be for nothing. His foot touched dry land. He strode forward, chin held high. One. Two. Three. He stopped before the court official. Now came the worst part, the debasement. He was a Fyrin man of the Republic. He bowed to no king. Yet, to achieve his aims, it was required. Aisa’s face came to mind, her beautiful gold almond eyes staring up at him. The breath from her mouth on his neck. Smoke from Vurun on the horizon as Vastrum burned it all in their jealousy and rage. His knees touched the stone of the quay before he even realised that he had knelt. He breathed slowly and touched his head to the stone. Anything for revenge. Debasement. Humiliation. Agony. All of it became as light as a feather.
He rose slowly, met the official's eyes, and spoke in Rhakanese, having practised the words a thousand times until his accent and meter were perfect. His voice was silky and calm, “To our most cherished friend, the most holy and terrible ruler of Rhakan, Sarawa Maw, on behalf of The Republic of Fyranis, I offer the aid of our fleet against Vastrum, which, even now, sails on the horizon towards Dagon.”
Just for a moment, something like surprise and genuine pleasure flashed across the tattooed official's face. He bowed his head just slightly, almost graciously, “Sarawa Maw accepts your gift. You are permitted to stay in Rhakan. You will return to the ship. You will sail to Angmaw. You will stay as the emperor’s guest.”
This had been the plan. Still, he knew from the reports of spies what the king's state was. He was a terrible beast. Jaqu would be the emperor’s prisoner as much as his guest. If Jaqu Rovan could have been anywhere else in the world, he would have been, but there was only one way he knew that he could have his revenge against Vastrum, the 13th, and Major Dryden. Win the war. Crush them. Use Rhakan as the greatest weapon against them. He shivered as he stepped back aboard the djong, which would take him upriver to Angmaw. He would do anything to win, even debase himself and risk life and limb standing beside a tyrant and monster. Somewhere far to the north, the roar of cannons at sea thundered. Vastrum was beginning its bombardment of Dagon. Soon, the war would broaden and enter a new, more deadly phase. Vastrum would pay. Jaqu grinned. He no longer cared how many died or what agonies and debasements he was forced to endure. He, Jaqu Rovan of Fyranis, would have his revenge.
