The Garden of Stones

chapter EIGHTEEN





“It is believed patriotism is a fine characteristic. It highlights our nobility and integrity in equal measure. What then do we feel, when patriotism is no more than a mask for hatred and blind ambition?”—from The Growth and Death of the Petal Empire, by Arimandones, Sēq Scholar to the Great House of Sûn, 981st Year of the Awakened Empire


Day 322 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


As he entered his office, Corajidin saw Yashamin leaned back in her chair, long legs propped on his desk. The desk was littered with petitions, letters from creditors, supply manifests for the army, cluttered ledgers. Silver-handled brushes lay beside a large, near-empty ink pot. Her fingertips were stained black with ink. Yashamin’s light robe had come undone in the heat, revealing the temptations of light and shadow, the texture and shape of her sweat-sheened skin. Her damp hair was stuck in ringlets to her unlined brow. Across the planes of her high cheekbones. Her long neck. She drew on a small pipe. The narcotic cloud that hung about her gave Corajidin a slight headache.

Cicadas droned in the lazy morning, almost louder than the bright splash of the alabaster fountain in the courtyard below. The pain in his belly and muscles was dulled for now, thanks to ever-increasing doses of lotus milk.

Corajidin dropped the latest reports from his senior officers on the table. Yashamin smiled indulgently at him, exhaled slowly. A pool of oily smoke, so thick it seemed near solid, dripped from her lips in pale streams before it rose lazily into the air. Corajidin felt a distant stirring in his loins. “You need distraction, love.” She shrugged and her robe hung precariously from her shoulders. “Lose yourself in me for a while, then sleep. I’ll sort through what needs your attention and what can wait. The world will still be here when you wake.”

There came a light rap on the door. Yashamin shrugged again, a lift of her shoulders that loosened the fall of her silk robe even farther. She raised an eyebrow, daring him to answer the door when she sat there, free for the taking.

Another knock, louder this time. Corajidin stifled a growl and bade the person enter, his fingers curled around the hilt of the long-knife given him by Vashne.

Farouk entered the room, garbed as always in the somber black and red of his armor. Corajidin wondered whether the man slept in it. Farouk made the Third Obeisance, kneeling with brow pressed to the floor, palms turned upward. He remained there for a count of heartbeats before climbing to his feet. Farouk remembered sende when he had something important to say.

The most powerful man in Shrīan stared at his aide. “Farouk?”

“My rahn,” he said plainly. “You asked me to keep watch on Pah-Mariamejeh’s activities. You also wanted to know, as soon as feasible, whether Armal attempted to contact her.”

“I remember my own cursed orders!” Corajidin snapped. He regretted his tone as soon as the words left his mouth. He was so tired.

“Your daughter was seen in Armal’s company twice yesterday. The first time she sought him out at the library, where they engaged in conversation. There was some touching—”

“Armal laid hands on my daughter?”

Farouk hesitated a moment before he continued, “It was she who was the forward one.”

“And the second time?” His voice sounded more distant than he intended. He found he was clutching the long-knife so tightly his fingernails were digging into his palm.

“Last night, outside her chambers. I’ve no more information than that.”

Corajidin walked to the open doors that led out to the balcony. The breeze cooled the sweat on his chest and brow. His vision blurred, and he had to steady himself against the railing until the moment passed. He could taste vomit on the back of his tongue.

“Armal must be sent away, Farouk.” Corajidin kept his back to the others. “As distant a posting as you can find. Nowhere too dangerous though. Somewhere where he will be useful but out of harm’s way. Arrange it as soon as you can.”

“I live to serve.” Corajidin heard the man rise to his feet, then walk to the door. There was a soft click as it closed behind him.

Corajidin heard the whisper of bare feet on polished wood. A sibilant hiss as Yashamin’s experienced fingers slid his robe off, letting it fall around his ankles. The warmth of an arm around his torso. A hand, assured, accomplished, certain, on his manhood. Corajidin felt Yashamin melt into him, her breasts pressed into his back.

“Do you trust Farouk not to exceed his authority?” she murmured into his shoulder. Her voice vibrated against his skin. “He’s no love for Armal.”

“Farouk knows his place, love. He will behave.”

“I hope so. What of Thufan?” she murmured, her hand moving him from anger to a desperate desire.

“He will thank me.” Corajidin turned in her arms, though she never lost touch with him. His mouth found hers, moist, inviting, hungry. Her lips full and soft under his.

Yashamin led him, at once mistress and slave, to the couch by the desk.





Morning had gone. Corajidin reclined at his desk, too distracted to work. A headache throbbed at the edge of true pain, due in equal parts to his hangover, Yashamin’s narcotic smoke, and the infirmity of the sickness that pooled in him like fetid water in a rusted basin. The gentle breeze from the overhead fan was soporific, the waves of cool air on his skin comforting. Through the open window the cries of gulls, the rattle of carriage wheels, and the din of conversation turned into a pulsing wave of incoherent sound. Amnon was a hot, humid city. He preferred the mild dryness of Erebus Prefecture with its cool winds off the dark waters of the Southron Sea, where it stretched south to the rugged, mountainous islands of Kaasgard and the wide icy wastes of Sarway.

A crystal decanter of honey wine remained untouched on his desk. A small pile of scrolls flexed under the breeze from the fan, edges curled upward in the damp air. One of the scrolls listed the names of those Thufan suggested be incarcerated, the last of Far-ad-din’s supporters. On another, Armal’s much softer views on the supposed rebellious activities of the Family Bey, whom Corajidin would feel much better about, were they easier to spy upon. Their holdings in the Rōmarq were vast, their people clannish and closed to strangers. A report from Farouk outlined the wealth claimed in Corajidin’s name. The list was very, very long. Somewhere it would no doubt be accompanied by a list just as long of those who were either the poorer, or who had disappeared, for providing it.

He looked down at the papers on his desk. Before he had left to send Armal away, Farouk had written Corajidin’s appointments for the day, including his meeting with the overdue Nehrun.

A knock at the door roused him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before granting permission for his visitor to enter, and he was surprised when it was Femensetri and Roshana who came through the doorway. Corajidin tasted something sour in his mouth as the two women approached his desk. Neither of them sat, nor did he offer.

Femensetri dropped a scroll case sealed with the white lotus of the Teshri. There were only two people who had such a seal: himself as Asrahn-Elect and Nazarafine as the Speaker for the People.

Corajidin did his best to smile, though he was sure it came out more as a sneer. Femensetri always managed to bring the worst out in him. He glanced at Roshana and had to admit he could see what Belamandris found alluring in her. Her face was handsome, high-cheeked and square-jawed like her brother’s, with dark eyes in their shadowed orbits either side of a slightly long, straight nose. Her hair was tucked behind the slight points of her ears. Roshana wore her light-armored corselet like a robe of state, the hilt of the long-knife strapped to her thigh smooth with use. This one was no peacock.

He glanced down at the wax tablet on his desk, though he did not need to. “I have an appointment—”

“Nehrun’s not coming, Corajidin.” Femensetri’s voice was a harsh thing, all corners and edges. She nodded to the scroll on the desk. “That’s from the Speaker. I wanted to make sure it arrived safe and sound.”

Corajidin eyed the scroll but made no move to touch it.

“It is a writ of abdication, Asrahn-Elect,” Roshana said firmly. “For my brother, Nehrun.”

“What inspired this?” In the Ancestors’ sweet names! Thankfully his voice was calm, though anger tensed in him like a bowstring.

“My brother feels it’s in the best interests of Shrīan, his House, and himself if he abdicates.” Roshana bowed her head in humility, while Corajidin inwardly seethed. “He has appointed me rahn-elect in his place. Obviously, once Indris returns my father to us—”

“Nobody has found Ariskander.” Corajidin’s words dropped like stones. “Nobody will find Ariskander. Face facts, Roshana, your father—”

“Lives, Asrahn-Elect,” Roshana spat. “Until an heir has been Awakened, we’ll continue to search for him. Where Nehrun has failed, or was, perhaps, less motivated to succeed than he otherwise might have been, we suspect Indris will be far more…”

“Effective?” Femensetri drawled.

“Thank you, Scholar Marshal.” Roshana beamed at Femensetri, who had served generations of the Great House of Näsarat before she had taken her role as Scholar Marshal.

“Nazarafine has endorsed Roshana as the new rahn-elect, so she’ll now represent her House on the Teshri.” Femensetri looked down at Corajidin. Her mindstone flared with curls of shadow. “Are there any arrangements, or discussions, you had with Nehrun that Roshana needs to know about?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” he lied. Curse Nehrun! Corajidin had counted on the man to keep his own House in order with regards to any search for Ariskander. Knowing Indris was the man who hunted for Ariskander filled Corajidin with new doubt. Thankfully the marshlands were large and days had passed since Ariskander had gone missing. “What of Nehrun? Will he return to Narsis or to his estates in the prefecture?”

Femensetri grinned at Corajidin. It was a wild thing, ripe with her contempt for him. “Nehrun took ship early this morning for the Shrine of the Vanities. There he’ll meditate upon his life. Have no fear, Corajidin! The Sēq Scholars at the shrine will be more than capable of protecting him from harm. After all, who knows what secrets he might yet reveal?”