“What’s that?” Nayauru Aia asked.

“A man is coming up the pass. A stranger.” The second kite caught the air. “A foreigner…”

Right now Uczenith’s spies would be rushing to their masters to warn them that another moment had come. Another summit that might see Atakaszir toppled down the col to shatter in the valley below. Would the foreigner bring news of further disaster? Masquerade plagues in the lowlands? An end to the pitiful, vital salt trade in Duchy Erebog?

A woman in a poncho climbed up to the signal post and began to wave her flags. Atakaszir translated the dips and flourishes as swiftly as they came. Then he peeled his lips back and grinned a death’s-head grin, the skull-joy of a man in battle.

“What is it?”

“Someone has come to offer me a gift.” Atakaszir touched the steel peak of his crown. “A gift he claims will make me a king of honor and revenge, whose enemies cannot escape him even if they flee to distant underlands. A king to be feared and obeyed.”

“How tantalizing,” Nayauru Aia said, smoothly. “What gift can that be?”

Revenge, Atakaszir thought. Revenge on the woman who betrayed me. A corpse to show my courtiers, and bone to stuff down the Uczenith craw, and blood to water my hopes.

But the pale man who approached his throne between the great ranked pillars brought different tidings. “King of Mansions,” he began, as Atakaszir’s allies and enemies alike leaned forward like salary workers waiting for their crystals of the Brine. “I bring word of your missing brother, of his life and deeds, and of how he may be restored to you.…”

“Svir?” Ataka whispered, but a king cannot whisper, it stinks of procht, the sick-thought of schemers, so he cried it aloud instead. “My brother, Svir, is alive?”

And he saw the Uczenith men whisper in consternation that the King they hated might restore the stolen glory of the stolen Prince. He saw distant Nayauru Aia, leaning against her pillar, quirk her lips in thought, for here was another eligible man.

All Atakaszir wanted in that moment was to call his army and march to his brother’s aid. But he was King, and a king must be wise.

“Come forward,” he said. “What is your name? And who sent you?”

Act Three: The Fall of Kyprananoke

ACT THREE

THE FALL OF KYPRANANOKE

18. Metagames

18

METAGAMES

“I WON’T kill her yet,” Apparitor snapped. “This isn’t your courtroom, Yawa, and you won’t hand me a verdict.”

“You’re sentimental.” Yawa sighed, to provoke him. “String your cook up on the yardarms, Svir. Let Sulane see what you do to traitors.”

“I don’t want her to die,” Baru whispered.

The two other cryptarchs blinked at her. “What did she say?”

“Speak up, Baru.”